Ere yet we yearn for what is out of our reach, we are still in the cradle. When wearied out with our yearnings, desire again falls asleep; we are on the death-bed.

Irony is to the high-bred what billingsgate is to the vulgar; and when one gentleman thinks another gentleman an ass, he does not say it point-blank, he implies it in the politest terms he can invent.

More bounteous run rivers when the ice that locked their flow melts into their waters. And when fine natures relent, their kindness is swelled by the thaw.

The haughty woman who can stand alone, and requires no leaning-place in our hearts, loses the spell of her sex.

Better than fame is still the wish for fame, the constant training for a glorious strife.

He whom God hath gifted with a love of retirement possesses, as it were, an extra sense.

There is no such thing as luck. It's a fancy name for being always at our duty, and so sure to be ready when good time comes.