The ingenuity of self-deception is inexhaustible.

The soul on earth is an immortal guest.

I am persuaded that there is no affection of the human heart more exquisitely pure, than that which is felt by a grateful son towards a mother.

it is the modern nature of goodness to exert itself quietly, while a few characters of the opposite cast seem, by the rumor of their exploits, to fill the world; and by their noise to multiply their numbers.

Imagination frames events unknown, In wild, fantastic shapes of hideous ruin, And what it fears creates.

The misfortune is, that religious learning is too often rather considered as an act of the memory than of the heart and affections; as a dry duty, rather than a lively pleasure.

A small unkindness is a great offence.