If we did but know how little some enjoy of the great things that they possess, there would not be much envy in the world.

Joys season'd high, and tasting strong of guilt.

Life is the desert, life the solitude, death joins us to the great majority.

Born originals, how comes it to pass that we die copies? That meddling ape imitation, as soon as we come to years of indiscretion, (so let me speak,) snatches the pen, and blots out nature's mark of separation, cancels her kind intention, destroys all mental individuality. The lettered world no longer consists of singulars: it is a medley, a mass; and a hundred books, at bottom, are but one.

Pity swells the tide of love.

Who lives to Nature, rarely can be poor ; who lives to fancy, never can be rich.

By all means use some time to be alone.