The memory is perpetually looking back when we have nothing present to entertain us. It is like those repositories in animals that are filled with food, on which they may ruminate when their present pastures fail.

I have often reflected within myself on this unaccountable humor in womankind of being smitten with everything that is showy and superficial, and on the numberless evils that befall the sex from this light fantastical disposition.

Life is not long enough for a coquette to play all her tricks in.

Love is a second life; it grows into the soul, warms every vein, and beats in every pulse.

Sweet are the slumbers of the virtuous man.

What sunshine is to flowers, smiles are to humanity. These are but trifles, to be sure; but scattered along life's pathway, the good they do is inconceivable.

Jesters do often prove prophets.