Love, like virtue, is its own reward.
Custom is the law of fools.
The want of a thing is perplexing enough, but the possession of it, is intolerable.
We gentlemen, whose chariot's roll only upon the four aces, are apt to have a wheel out of order.
Friendship's said to be a plant of tedious growth, its root composed of tender fibers, nice in their taste, cautious in spreading.
True virtue, wheresoever it moves, still carries an intrinsic worth about it.