Great men are like eagles, and build their nest on some lofty solitude.
Hope is the confusion of the desire for a thing with its probability.
The first forty years of life give us the text; the next thirty supply the commentary on it.
The scenes and events of long ago, and the persons who took part in them, wear a charming aspect to the eye of memory, which sees only the outlines and takes no note of disagreeable details. The present enjoys no such advantage, and so it always seems defective.
Honour is external conscience, and conscience is inward honour.
Unrest is the mark of existence.