So it is with minds. Unless you keep them busy with some definite subject that will bridle and control them, they throw themselves in disorder hither and yon in the vague field of imagination... And there is no mad or idle fancy that they do not bring forth in the agitation.

Poetry reproduces an indefinable mood that is more amorous than love itself. Venus is not so beautiful all naked, alive, and panting, as she is here in Virgil.

What kind of truth is it which has these mountains as its boundary and is a lie beyond them?

Whoever will be cured of ignorance, let him confess it.

Virtue shuns ease as a companion. It demands a rough and thorny path.

The worth of the mind consisteth not in going high, but in marching orderly.

Though we may be learned by another's knowledge, we can never be wise but by our own experience.