There are so many tender and holy emotions flying about in our inward world, which, like angels, can never assume the body of an outward act; so many rich and lovely flowers spring up which bear no seed, that it is a happiness poetry was invented, which receives into its limbs all these incorporeal spirits, and the perfume of all these flowers.

It is not great, but little good-haps that make up happiness.

Strong characters are brought out by change of situation, and gentle ones by permanence.

Every friend is to the other a sun, and a sunflower also. He attracts and follows.

Repetition is the mother of education.

What makes old age so sad is, not that our joys, but that our hopes then cease.

Ah! The seasons of love roll not backward but onward, downward forever.