Hope is itself a species of happiness.

Life is surely given us for higher purposes than to gather what our ancestors have wisely thrown away, and to learn what is of no value but because it has been forgotten.

Life protracted is protracted woe.

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

Pleasure is very seldom found where it is sought; our brightest blazes of gladness are commonly kindled by unexpected sparks.

This is my history; like all other histories, a narrative of misery.

We often look with indifference on the successive parts of something that, if the whole were seen together, would shake us with emotion.