It is the still small voice that the soul heeds; not the deafening blasts of doom.

Her mouth is a honey-blossom, No doubt, as the poet sings; But within her lips, the petals, Lurks a cruel bee that stings.

What the American public wants in the theater is a tragedy with a happy ending.

Two voices are there; one is of the sea, One of the mountains: each a mighty Voice.

Her voice was ever soft, Gentle, and low, an excellent thing in woman.

I thank you for your voices, thank you! Your most sweet voices! Now you have left your voices, I have no further with you.