How sweet, how passing sweet, is solitude! But grant me still a friend in my retreat, whom I may whisper, solitude is sweet.

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

[My kitten's] gambols are not to be described, and would be incredible, if they could.

Could he with reason murmur at his case, Himself sole author of his own disgrace?

No man can be a patriot on an empty stomach.

As if the world and they were hand and glove.

There is in souls a sympathy with sounds.