Anger is a transient hatred; or at least very like it.
God afflicts with the mind of a father, and kills for no other purpose but that he may raise again.
The grateful person fears no court or judge, no sentence or executioner, but what he carries about him in his own breast: and being still the most severe exactor of himself, not only confesses but proclaims his debts.
Innocence is like polished armor; it adorns and defends.
Passion is the drunkenness of the mind.
Guilt upon the conscience, like rust upon iron, both defiles and consumes it, gnawing and creeping into it, as that does which at last eats out the very heart and substance of the metal.