Those flimsy webs that break as soon as wrought, attain not to the dignity of thought.

There is in souls a sympathy with sounds.

Absence of proof is not proof of absence.

God made the country, and man made the town.

An epigram is but a feeble thing - With straw in tail, stuck there by way of sting.

Variety's the very spice of life, That gives it all its flavor.

Solitude, seeming a sanctuary, proves a grave; a sepulchre in which the living lie, where all good qualities grow sick and die