There are words to paint the misery of love, but none to paint its happiness.

The truth is, we like to talk over our disasters, because they are ours; and others like to listen, because they are not theirs.

Youth is a season that has no repose.

There is a large stock on hand; but somehow or other, nobody's experience ever suits us but our own.

there can be neither politically nor morally a good which is not universal ... we cannot reform for a time or for a class, but for all and for the whole, and our very interests will draw us together in one wide bond of sympathy.

Affection exaggerates its own offenses.

Nothing but love can answer to love; no affection, no kindness, no care, can supply its place: it is its own sweet want.