I have seen some whose consciences, owing undoubtedly to former indulgence, had grown to be as irritable as spoilt children, and at length gave them no peace. They did not know when to swallow their cud, and their lives of course yielded no milk.

Those whom we can love, we can hate; to others we are indifferent.

The boy gathers materials for a temple, and then when he is thirty, concludes to build a woodshed.

Money is not required to buy one necessity of the soul.

The Slothful do not have the time to become virtuous or despicable.

Poetry cannot breathe in the scholar's atmosphere.

We have not so good a right to hate any as our Friend.