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

Love and enthusiasm are always ridiculous, when not reciprocated by their objects.

Mediocrity is beneath a brave soul.

Grief is, of all the passions, the one that is the most ingenious and indefatigable in finding food for its own subsistence.

The most certain mode of making people content with us is to make them content with themselves.

Genius is the gold in the mine, talent is the miner who works and brings it out.

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?