It is not he who searches for praise who finds it.
That which happens to the soil when it ceases to be cultivated by the social man happens to man himself when he foolishly forsakes society for solitude; the brambles grow up in his desert heart.
Memory always obeys the commands of the heart.
Reason is the historian, but passions are the actors.
Oblivion is the rule and fame the exception, of humanity.
The subtle sauce of malice is often indulged in by maidens of uncertain age, over their tea.