Memory, wit, fancy, acuteness, cannot grow young again in old age, but the heart can.
Joy descends gently upon us like the evening dew, and does not patter down like a hailstorm.
Sleep, riches, and health, to be truly enjoyed, must be interrupted.
Art is indeed not the bread but the wine of life.
It is not great, but little good-haps that make up happiness.
Sorrows are like thunderclouds, in the distance they look black, over our heads scarcely gray.