He thought of the mouldering child, which laid its withered thin arms around his soul, as if it were his own, and to whom Death had given as much as a god gave to Endymion, — sleep, eternal youth, and immortality.

Nations and men are only the best when they are the gladdest, and deserve heaven when they enjoy it.

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

Recollection is the only paradise from which we cannot be turned out.

Because the heart beats under a covering of hair, of fur, feathers, or wings, it is, for that reason, to be of no account?

What Cicero said of men-that they are like wines, age souring the bad, and bettering the good-we can say of misfortune, that it has the same effect upon them.

Humanity is never so beautiful as when praying for forgiveness, or else forgiving another.