It is a sad weakness in us, after all, that the thought of a man's death hallows him anew to us; as if life were not sacred too.

In travelling I shape myself betimes to idleness And take fools' pleasure

Death is the king of this world: 'Tis his park where he breeds life to feed him. Cries of pain are music for his banquet.

No story is the same to us after a lapse of time; or rather we who read it are no longer the same interpreters.

Starting a long way off the true point, and proceeding by loops and zigzags , we now and then arrive just where we ought to be.

Anger and jealousy can no more bear to lose sight of their objects than love.

Only in the agony of parting do we look into the depths of love.