Happiness is a rare plant that seldom takes root on earth-few ever enjoyed it, except for a brief period; the search after it is rarely rewarded by the discovery, but there is an admirable substitute for it... a contented spirit.

Society seldom forgives those who have discovered the emptiness of its pleasures, and who can live independent of it and them.

Those can most easily dispense with society who are the most calculated to adorn it; they only are dependent on it who possess no mental resources, for though they bring nothing to the general mart, like beggars, they are too poor to stay at home.

Heaven sends us misfortunes as a moral tonic.

Love matches are made by people who are content, for a month of honey, to condemn themselves to a life of vinegar.

There is no cosmetic like happiness

Satire, like conscience, reminds us of what we often wish to forget.