Was genius ever ungrateful? Mere talents are dry leaves, tossed up and down by gusts of passion, and scattered and swept away; but, Genius lies on the bosom of Memory, and Gratitude at her feet.

Death stands above me, whispering low I know not what into my ear; Of his strange language all I know Is, there is not a word of fear.

Little men build up great ones, but the snow colossus soon melts; the good stand under the eye of God, and therefore stand.

Absurdities are great or small in proportion to custom or insuetude.

We are no longer happy so soon as we wish to be happier.

Fame, they tell you, is air; but without air there is no life for any; without fame there is none for the best.

Virtue is presupposed in friendship.