It is delightful to kiss the eyelashes of the beloved--is it not? But never so delightful as when fresh tears are on them.
No ashes are lighter than those of incense, and few things burn out sooner.
The sublime is contained in a grain of dust.
Ridicule has followed the vestiges of truth, but never usurped her place.
Clear writers, like fountains, do not seem so deep as they are; the turbid look the most profound.
Belief in a future life is the appetite of reason.