As you see in a pair of bellows, there is a forced breath without life, so in those that are puffed up with the wind of ostentation, there may be charitable words without works.

Our good purposes foreslowed are become our tormentors upon our deathbed.

It is not sin that kills the soul, but impenitence.

Society is the atmosphere of souls; and we necessarily imbibe from it something which is either infectious or healthful.

Sorrows, because they are lingering guests, I will entertain but moderately, knowing that the more they are made of the longer they will continue: and for pleasures, because they stay not, and do but call to drink at my door, I will use them as passengers with slight respect. He is his own best friend that makes the least of both of them.

Perfection is the child of time.

Good prayers never come creeping home. I am sure I shall receive either what I ask, or what I should ask.