Our own cast-off sorrows are not sufficient to constitute sympathy for others.
Love is the pass-key to the heart.
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.
It is often a sign of wit not to show it, and not to see that others want it.
It were no virtue to bear calamities if we did not feel them.
Innocence and mystery never dwell long together.