We are often prophets to others only because we are our own historians.
Faith, amid the disorders of a sinful life, is like the lamp burning in an ancient tomb.
We must labor unceasingly to render our piety reasonable, and our reason pious.
In youth, grief comes with a rush and overflow, but it dries up, too, like the torrent. In the winter of life it remains a miserable pool, resisting all evaporation.
Piety softens all that courage bears.
Old age is the night of life, as night is the old age of the day. Still, night is full of magnificence; and, for many, it is more brilliant than the day.