“But what is woman? Only one of nature’s agreeable blunders.”

Does not the passage of Moses and the Israelites into the Holy Land yield incomparably more poetic variety than the voyages of Ulysses or Aeneas?

There have been fewer friends on earth than kings.

For the whole world, without a native home, Is nothing but a prison of larger room.

The getting out of doors is the greatest part of the journey.

“We may talk what we please,” he cries in his enthusiasm for the oldest of the arts, “of lilies, and lions rampant, and spread eagles

It was not sleep that made him nod, he said, But too great weight and largeness of his head.

Plenty, as well as Want, can separate friends.

Let’s banish business, banish sorrow; To the gods belong to-morrow.

The liberty of a private man, in being master of his own time and actions, as far as may consist with the laws of God and of his country.

To be a husbandman, is but a retreat from the city; to be a philosopher, from the world; or rather, a retreat from the world, as it is man’s, into the world, as it is God’s.

Acquaintance I would have, but when it depends; not on number, but the choice of friends.

Hope is the most hopeless thing of all.

Come, my best Friends! my Books! and lead me on.

Build yourself a book-nest to forget the world without.

Happy insect! what can be In happiness compared to thee? Fed with nourishment divine, The dewy morning’s gentle wine!

Our yesterday’s to-morrow now is gone, And still a new to-morrow does come on. We by to-morrow draw out all our store, Till the exhausted well can yield no more.

More specifically, Barack Obama is the president of a congenitally racist country, erected upon the plunder of life, liberty, labor, and land. This plunder has not been exclusive to black people.

Far and away the most changes are the result of mistakes pure and simple slips of the pen, accidental omissions, inadvertent additions, misspelled words, blunders of one sort or another.

Statesman only talk of fate when they have blundered

The world and all its wisdom is but a booby, blundering school-boy that needs management and could be managed.

The prank of a page- boy, the blunder of a servant, a bit of table talk – they are all part of the curriculum.

To be matter-of-fact about the world is to blunder into fantasy – and dull fantasy at that, as the real world is strange and wonderful.

Grief is the agony of an instant; the indulgence of grief the blunder of a life.

Youth is a blunder; Manhood a struggle, Old Age a regret.