I love to lose myself in a mystery to pursue my reason to an O altitudo.

We term sleep a death by which we may be literally said to die daily; in fine, so like death, I dare not trust it without my prayers.

Charity begins at home, is the voice of the world.

The discourses of the table among true loving friends are held in strict silence.

Life itself is but the shadow of death, and souls departed but the shadows of the living.

But the iniquity of oblivion blindly scattereth her poppy, and deals with the memory of men without distinction to merit of perpetuity.

How shall we expect charity towards others, when we are uncharitable to ourselves?