The want of a thing is perplexing enough, but the possession of it, is intolerable.
A slighted woman knows no bounds.
Friendship's said to be a plant of tedious growth, its root composed of tender fibers, nice in their taste, cautious in spreading.
Virtue is its own reward. There's a pleasure in doing good which sufficiently pays itself.
True virtue, wheresoever it moves, still carries an intrinsic worth about it.
Custom is the law of fools.