If faith produce no works, I see That faith is not a living tree.

In grief we know the worst of what we feel but who can tell the end of what we fear?

In men this blunder still you find; all think their little set mankind.

Anger is the common refuge of insignificance. People who feel their character to be slight, hope to give it weight by inflation: but the blown bladder at its fullest distention is still empty.

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.

Sweet is the breath of praise when given by those whose own high merit claims the praise they give.

All desire the gifts of God, but they do not desire God.