There is no wisdom in useless and hopeless sorrow, but there is something in it so like virtue, that he who is wholly without it cannot be loved.

Men have solicitude about fame; and the greater share they have of it, the more afraid they are of losing it.

The hopes of zeal are not wholly groundless.

Sorrow is a kind of rust of the soul, which every new idea contributes in its passage to scour away. It is the putrefaction of stagnant life, and is remedied by exercise and motion.

Such seems to be the disposition of man, that whatever makes a distinction produces rivalry.

Melancholy, indeed, should be diverted by every means but drinking.

He that teaches us anything which we knew not before is undoubtedly to be reverenced as a master.