The pride of the peacock is the glory of God.

Gratitude is heaven itself.

Nature in darkness groans and men are bound to sullen contemplation in the night: restless they turn on beds of sorrow; in their inmost brain feeling the crushing wheels, they rise, they write the bitter words of stern philosophy and knead the bread of knowledge with tears and groans.

Everything to be imagined is an image of truth.

Work up imagination to the state of vision.

Pity would be no more, If we did not make somebody poor. Mercy no more could be, If all were happy as we.

Why stand we here trembling around, calling on God for help, and not ourselves, in whom God dwells?