As turning the logs will make a dull fire burn, so change of studies a dull brain.

I dislike an eye that twinkles like a star. Those only are beautiful which, like the planets, have a steady lambent light, are luminous, but not sparkling.

I stay a little longer, as one stays, to cover up the embers that still burn.

It is curious to note the old sea-margins of human thought! Each subsiding century reveals some new mystery; we build where monsters used to hide themselves.

Whatever poet, orator, or sage may say of it, old age is still old age.

The rays of happiness, like those of light, are colorless when unbroken.

Intelligence and courtesy not always are combined; Often in a wooden house a golden room we find.