They whom truth and wisdom lead, can gather honey from a weed.
Remorse, the fatal egg that pleasure laid.
Solitude, seeming a sanctuary, proves a grave; a sepulchre in which the living lie, where all good qualities grow sick and die
How much a dunce that has been sent to roam, excels a dunce that has been kept at home.
The innocent seldom find an uncomfortable pillow.
Thus happiness depends, as nature shows, less on exterior things than most suppose.