The more we do, the more we can do; the more busy we are, the more leisure we have.

One truth discovered, one pang of regret at not being able to express it, is better than all the fluency and flippancy in the world.

The truth is, we pamper little griefs into great ones, and bear great ones as well as we can.

We would willingly, and without remorse, sacrifice not only the present moment, but all the interval (no matter how long) that separates us from any favorite object.

In what we really understand, we reason but little.

I'm not smart, but I like to observe. Millions saw the apple fall, but Newton was the one who asked why.

Belief is with them mechanical, voluntary: they believe what they are paid for - they swear to that which turns to account. Do you suppose, that after years spent in this manner, they have any feeling left answering to the difference between truth and falsehood?