A lover without indiscretion is no lover at all.

O, you have torn my life all to pieces... made me be what I prayed you in pity not to make me be again!

A novel is an impression, not an argument; and there the matter must rest.

You, and those like you, take your fill of pleasure on earth by making the life of such as me bitter and black with sorrow; and then it is a fine thing, when you have had enough of that, to think of securing your pleasure in heaven by becoming converted!

...she moved about in a mental cloud of many-coloured idealities, which eclipsed all sinister contingencies by its brightness.

If Galileo had said in verse that the world moved, the inquisition might have let him alone.

Done because we are too many.