If by the people you understand the multitude, the hoi polloi, 'tis no matter what they think; they are sometimes in the right, sometimes in the wrong; their judgment is a mere lottery.

Reason saw not, till Faith sprung the Light.

As poetry is the harmony of words, so music is that of notes.

Whatever is, is in its causes just.

To so perverse a sex all grace is vain.

Love reckons hours for months, and days for years; and every little absence is an age.

Death in itself is nothing; but we fear to be we know not what, we know not where.