The sad vicissitude of things.
Shall we for ever make new books, as apothecaries make new mixtures, by pouring only out of one vessel into another?
The loneliness is the mother of wisdom.
The best hearts are ever the bravest.
The desire of knowledge, like the thirst of riches, increases ever with the acquisition of it.
Tis going, I own, like the Knight of the Woeful Countenance, in quest of melancholy adventures--but I know not how it is, but I am never so perfectly conscious of the existence of a soul within me, as when I am entangled in them.