Love is full of imagination.

The pure in heart are slow to credit calumnies, because they hardly comprehend what motives can be inducements to the alleged crimes.

Happiness is a sunbeam which may pass through a thousand bosoms without losing a particle of its original ray; nay, when it strikes on a kindred heart, like the converged light on a mirror, it reflects itself with redoubled brightness. It is not perfected till it is shared.

Guilt is a spiritual Rubicon.

Bright was the summer of 1296. The war which had desolated Scotland was then at an end.

The only impregnable citadel of virtue is religion; for there is no bulwark of mere morality, which some temptation may not overtop or undermine, and destroy.

When the cup of any sensual pleasure is drained to the bottom, there is always poison in the dregs.