We exaggerate misfortune and happiness alike. We are never as bad off or as happy as we say we are.
Reproach is usually honest, which is more than can be said of praise.
True love is eternal, infinite, and always like itself. It is equal and pure.
A deist is an atheist with an eye cocked for the off-chance of some advantage.
Though the human heart may have to pause for rest when climbing the heights of affection it rarely stops on the slippery slope of hatred.
Who is to decide which is the grimmer sight: withered hearts, or empty skulls?