Our notion of the perfect society embraces the family as its centre and ornament. Nor is there a paradise planted till the children appear in the foreground to animate and complete the picture. A. B. Alcott.
Our own heart, and not other men's opinions, forms our true honour. Coleridge.
Our passions and principles are steady in frenzy; but begin to shift and waver, as we return to reason. Sterne.
Our passions are like convulsion fits, which, though they make us stronger for the time, leave us weaker ever after. Pope.
Our passions are true phœnixes; when the 45 old one is burnt out, the new one rises straightway from its ashes. Goethe.
Our path of glory / By many a cloud is darken'd and unblest. Keble.
Our patience will achieve more than our force. Burke.
Our peasant (Burns) showed himself among us, "a soul like an Æolian harp, in whose strings the vulgar wind, as it passed through them, changed itself into articulate melody." Carlyle.
Our pleasures are short, and can only charm at intervals; love is a method of protracting our greatest pleasure. Goldsmith.
Our pleasures travel by express; our pains by parliamentary. F. G. Trafford.