No decking sets forth anything so much as affection.

O sweet woods, the delight of solitariness!

Anger, the Stoics said, was a short madness.

Come Sleep! Oh Sleep, the certain knot of peace, the baiting-place of wit, the balm of woe, the poor man's wealth, the prisoner's release, the indifferent judge between the high and low.

High-erected thoughts seated in the heart of courtesy.

Whatever comes out of despair cannot bear the title of valor, which should be lifted up to such a height that holding all things under itself, it should be able to maintain its greatness, even in the midst of miseries.

Every base occupation makes one sharp in its practice, and dull in every other.