“There is a graveyard in my poor heart – dark, heaped-up graves, from which no flowers spring.”

Good women are rarely clever and clever women are rarely good.

There is no such thing as unfortunate genius; if a man or woman is fit for work, God appoints the field.

Life is a lie, and Love a cheat.

Don’t want to end up a cartoon in a cartoon grave yard.

I wouldn’t give one iota to make a trip from the cradle to the grave unless I could live in a competitive world.

Now, girls, if you want to observe a young man hustle out after a pick and shovel, just tell him that your heart is in some other fellow’s grave. Young men are grave-robbers by nature.

The two most precious things this side of the grave are our reputation and our life. But it is to be lamented that the most contemptible whisper may deprive us of the one, and the weakest weapon of the other.

Fame is an undertaker that pays but little attention to the living, but bedizens the dead, furnishes out their funerals, and follows them to the grave

Grave was the man in years, in looks, in word, his locks were grey, yet was his courage green.

To th’ active Moon a quick brisk stroke he gave, To Saturn’s string a touch more sore and grave.

All our lives we sweat and save, Building for a shallow grave.