When thinking about companions gone, we feel ourselves doubly alone.

The happy combination of fortuitous circumstances.

Great talent has always a little madness mixed up with it.

One hour of life, crowded to the full with glorious action, and filled with noble risks, is worth whole years of those mean observances of paltry decorum, in which men steal through existence, like sluggish waters through a marsh, without either honor or observation.

A glass of good wine is a gracious creature, and reconciles poor mortality to itself and that is what few things can do.

It is the privilege of tale-tellers to open their story in an inn, the free rendezvous of all travellers, and where the humour of each displays itself, without ceremony or restraint.

Sensibility is nature's celestial spring.