How little of permanent happiness could belong to a couple who were only brought together because their passions were stronger than their virtue.

Catherine [...] enjoyed her usual happiness with Henry Tilney, listening with sparkling eyes to everything he said; and, in finding him irresistible, becoming so herself.

The more I see of the world, the more am I dissatisfied with it.

It is particularly incumbent on those who never change their opinion, to be secure of judging properly at first.

His cold politeness, his ceremonious grace, were worse than anything.

To sit in the shade on a fine day and look upon verdure is the most perfect refreshment.

It is the misfortune of poetry, to be seldom safely enjoyed by those who enjoy it completely.