The heart never becomes wrinkled.

It is the fine rain that soaks us through.

Happiness, like misfortunes, never comes alone.

We like so much to talk of ourselves that we are never weary of those private interviews with a lover during the course of whole years, and for the same reason the devout like to spend much time with their confessor; it is the pleasure of talking of themselves, even though it be to talk ill.

Oh Dear! How unfortunate I am not to have anyone to weep with!

When we reckon without Providence, we must frequently reckon twice.

Thicken your religion a little. It is evaporating altogether by being subtilized.