Friends are the thermometer by which we may judge the temperature of our fortunes.

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

Conversation is the legs on which thought walks; and writing, the wings by which it flies.

Sure there's different roads from this to Dungarvan* - some thinks one road pleasanter, and some think another; wouldn't it be mighty foolish to quarrel for this? - and sure isn't it twice worse to thry to interfere with people for choosing the road they like best to heaven?

Mediocrity is beneath a brave soul.

Life would be as insupportable without the prospect of death, as it would be without sleep.

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