Glory, built on selfish principles, is shame and guilt.
Visits are insatiable devourers of time, and fit only for those who, if they did not that, would do nothing.
Who loves a garden loves a greenhouse too.
Grief is itself a medicine.
Solitude, seeming a sanctuary, proves a grave; a sepulchre in which the living lie, where all good qualities grow sick and die
A fretful temper will divide the closest knot that may be tied, by ceaseless sharp corrosion; a temper passionate and fierce may suddenly your joys disperse at one immense explosion.