In sad truth, half our forebodings of our neighbors are but our own wishes, which we are ashamed to utter in any other form.

The lover and the physician are each popular from the same cause - we talk to them of nothing but ourselves.

youth, balancing itself upon hope, is forever in extremes: its expectations are continually aroused only to be baffled, and disappointment, like a summer shower, is violent in proportion to its brevity.

To this hour, the great science and duty of politics is lowered by the petty leaven of small and personal advantage.

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

Affection exaggerates its own offenses.

All beginnings are very troublesome things.