Difficulties exist to be surmounted.

Men imagine that they communicate their virtue or vice only by overt actions, and do not see that virtue or vice emit a breath every moment.

There is no luck in literary reputation. They who make up the final verdict upon every book are not the partial and noisy readers of the hour when it appears; but a court as of angels, a public not to be bribed, not to be entreated, and not to be overawed, decides upon every man's title to fame.

Men wish to be saved from the mischiefs of their vices, but not from their vices.

In the last analysis, love is only the reflection of a man's own worthiness from other men.

What potent blood hath modest May.

For what are they all in their high conceit, When man in the bush with God may meet?