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

Since we cannot match it let us take our revenge by abusing it.

There is a certain amount of purpose, acquiescence, and satisfaction in nursing one's melancholy.

There is a sort of gratification in doing good which makes us rejoice in ourselves.

An orator of past times declared that his calling was to make small things appear to be grand.

He who would teach men to die would teach them to live.

It makes me hate accepting things that are probable when they are held up before me as infallibly true. I prefer these words which tone down and modify the hastiness of our propositions: "Perhaps, In some sort, Some, They say, I think," and the like.