Whom conscience, ne'er asleep, Wounds with incessant strokes, not loud, but deep.

All passions that suffer themselves to be relished and digested are but moderate.

Every one rushes elsewhere and into the future, because no one wants to face one's own inner self.

I seek in the reading of books, only to please myself, by an honest diversion.

Lend yourself to others, but give yourself to yourself.

The reverse side of truth has a hundred thousand shapes and no defined limits.

There is some shadow of delight and delicacy which smiles upon and flatters us even in the very lap of melancholy.