God is an unutterable sigh, planted in the depths of the soul.
It is not the end of joy that makes old age so sad, but the end of hope.
The look of a king is itself a deed.
Ah! The seasons of love roll not backward but onward, downward forever.
Man has here two and a half minutes-one to smile, one to sigh, and a half to love: for in the midst of this minute he dies.
As winter strips the leaves from around us, so that we may see the distant regions they formerly concealed, so old age takes away our enjoyments only to enlarge the prospect of the coming eternity.