We are more prone to murmur at the punishment of our faults than to lament them.

Tears fell from my eyes - yes, weak and foolish as it now appears to me, I wept for my departed youth; and for that beauty of which the faithful mirror too plainly assured me, no remnant existed.

Spring is the season of hope, and autumn is that of memory.

We are more prone to murmur at the punishment of our faults than to lament them.

Tears may be dried up, but the heart - never.

Those who are formed to win general admiration are seldom calculated to bestow individual happiness.

Modern historians are all would-be philosophers; who, instead of relating facts as they occurred, give us their version, or rather perversions of them, always colored by their political prejudices, or distorted to establish some theory . . .