There is a sacredness in tears. They are not the mark of weakness, but of power.

It is but seldom that any one overt act produces hostilities between two nations; there exists, more commonly, a previous jealousy and ill will, a predisposition to take offense.

Poetry is evidently a contagious complaint.

There was one species of despotism under which he had long groaned, and that was petticoat government.

There is never jealousy where there is not strong regard.

There is nothing in England that exercises a more delightful spell over my imagination than the lingerings of the holiday customs and rural games of former times. They recall the pictures my fancy used to draw in the May morning of life, when as yet I only knew the world through books, and believed it to be all that poets had painted it; and they bring with them the flavour of those honest days of yore, in which, perhaps with equal fallacy, I am apt to think the world was more home-bred, social, and joyous than at present.

Jealous people poison their own banquet and then eat it