Poverty is the only load which is the heavier the more loved ones there are to assist in bearing it.

Variety of mere nothings gives more pleasure than uniformity of something.

Memory, wit, fancy, acuteness, cannot grow young again in old age, but the heart can.

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

Each departed friend is a magnet that attracts us to the next world.

Sleep, riches, and health, to be truly enjoyed, must be interrupted.

The last, best fruit which comes to late perfection, even in the kindliest soul, is tenderness toward the hard, forbearance toward the unforbearing, warmth of heart toward the cold, philanthropy toward the misanthropic.