What is life? A gulf of troubled waters, where the soul, like a vexed bark, is tossed upon the waves of pain and pleasure by the wavering breath of passions.

Youth is a season that has no repose.

Habit is a second nature, and what was at first pleasure, is next necessity.

Repentance is a one-faced Janus, ever looking to the past.

Consistency is a human word, but it certainly expresses nothing human.

All beginnings are very troublesome things.

Conscience, like a child, is soon lulled to sleep.