Hope smiles on the threshold of the year to come, whispering that it will be happier.
Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul.
Hope is the nurse of misery.
Hope is itself a species of happiness, and, perhaps, the chief happiness which this world affords.
Hope is a good breakfast, but it is a bad supper.
Honey is sweet but bees sting.
Honesty is the first chapter of the book of wisdom.
Only Robinson Crusoe had everything done by Friday.