Romance is the poetry of literature.

Reason ought not, like vanity, to adorn herself with ancient parchments, and the display of a genealogical tree; more dignified in her proceedings, and proud of her immortal nature, she ought to derive everything from herself.

Order in a house ought to be like the machinery in opera, whose effect produces great pleasure, but whose ends must be hid.

Our own cast-off sorrows are not sufficient to constitute sympathy for others.

Where love and wisdom drink out of the same cup, in this everyday world, it is the exception.

Obligation is the bitterest thraldom.

To love one that is great, is almost to be great one's self.