Thou know'st how fearless is my trust in thee.

Are we not like the actor of old times, who wore his mask so long his face took its likeness?

Strange mystery of our nature, that those in whom genius develops itself in imagination, thus taking its most ethereal form, should yet be the most dependent on the opinions of others!

How often, in this cold and bitter world, is the warm heart thrown back upon itself! Cold, careless, are we of another's grief; we wrap ourselves in sullen selfishness.

It merely shews, after all, that affection is a habit.

Memory has many conveniences, and, among others, that of foreseeing things as they have afterwards happened.

doubts, like facts, are stubborn things.