Tell me, sweet eyes, from what divinest star did ye drink in your liquid melancholy?

To the thinker, the most trifling external object often suggests ideas, which, like Homer's chain, extend, link after link, from earth to heaven.

There is no past, as long as books shall live. Books make the past our heritage and our home.

Remorse is the echo of a lost virtue.

Let youth cherish sleep, the happiest of earthly boons, while yet it is at its command; for there cometh the day to all when "neither the voice of the lute nor the birds" shall bring back the sweet slumbers that fell on their young eyes as unbidden as the dews.

We cannot of ourselves estimate the degree of our success in what we strive for.

Books are but waste paper unless we spend in action the wisdom we get from thought.