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“I have formed my plans—right plans I deem them—and in them I have attended to the claims of conscience, the counsels of reason. I know how soon youth would fade and bloom perish, if in the cup of bliss offered, but one drew of shame, or one flavour of remorse were detected; and I do not want sacrifice, sorrow, dissolution- such is not my taste. I wish to foster, not to blight—to earn gratitude, not to wring tears of blood—no, nor of brine: my harvest must be in smiles, in endearments, in sweet- that will do.” — Charlotte Brontë
I have formed my plans—right plans I deem them—and in them I have attended to the claims of conscience, the counsels of reason. I know how soon youth would fade and bloom perish, if in the cup of bliss offered, but one drew of shame, or one flavour of remorse were detected; and I do not want sacrifice, sorrow, dissolution- such is not my taste. I wish to foster, not to blight—to earn gratitude, not to wring tears of blood—no, nor of brine: my harvest must be in smiles, in endearments, in sweet- that will do.