Youth would be too happy, might it add to its own beauty and felicity the wisdom and experience of riper years. Were it possible for it to realize the worth of time, as life's receding hours reveal it, how rapidly would it press on towards perfection!

There is a lore simple and sure, that asks no discipline of weary years--the language of the soul, told through the eye.

Pride is a fruitful source of uneasiness. It keeps the mind in disquiet. Humility is the antidote to this evil.

Something will be gathered from the tablets of the most faultless day for regrets.

Mothers, whatever you wish your children to become, strive to exhibit in your own lives and conversation.

The vanity of shining in conversation is usually subversive of its own desires.

Figure to yourself what the year would sustain were the spring taken away: such a loss do they sustain who trifle in youth.