Man spends his life in reasoning on the past, in complaining of the present, in fearing future.
Mutability is written upon all things.
To lose one's self in reverie, one must be either very happy, or very unhappy. Reverie is the child of extremes.
Gold like the sun, which melts wax, but hardens clay, expands great souls.
Reason is the historian, but passions are the actors.
Wrong is wrong; no fallacy can hide it, no subterfuge cover it so shrewdly but that the All-Seeing One will discover and punish it.