Universal love is a glove without fingers, which fits all bands alike and none closely; but true affection is like a glove with fingers, which fits one hand only, and sits close to that one.

Joys are our wings, sorrows our spurs.

Romanticism is beauty without bounds-the beautiful infinite.

With so many thousand joys, is it not black ingratitude to call the world a place of sorrow and torment?

Repetition is the mother of education.

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

Woman and men of retiring timidity are cowardly only in dangers which affect themselves, but the first to rescue when others are in danger.