The cure for tender sensibilities is to make more of our objects and less of our selves.
The use we make of our fortune determines its sufficiency. A little is enough if used wisely, and too much if expended foolishly.
It is seldom that we find out how great are our resources until we are thrown upon them.
We trifle when we assign limits to our desires, since nature hath set none.
There is no sense of weariness like that which closes in a day of eager and unintermittent pursuit of pleasure. The apple is eaten, but "the core sticks in the throat." Expectation has then given way to ennui, appetite to satiety.
At the best, sarcasms, bitter irony, scathing wit, are a sort of swordplay of the mind. You pink your adversary, and he is forthwith dead; and then you deserve to be hung for it.
Woman's power is over the affections. A beautiful dominion is hers; but she risks its forfeiture when she seeks to extend it.
A genuine passion is like a mountain stream; it admits of no impediment; it cannot go backward; it must go forward.
Wine is a treacherous friend who you must always be on guard for.
Love delights in paradoxes. Saddest when it has most reason to be gay, sighs are the signs of its deepest joy, and silence is the expression of its yearning tenderness.
In ambition, as in love, the successful can afford to be indulgent toward their rivals. The prize our own, it is graceful to recognize the merit that vainly aspired to it.
We may learn from children how large a part of our grievances is imaginary. But the pain is just as real.
The highest excellence is seldom attained in more than one vocation. The roads leading to distinction in separate pursuits diverge, and the nearer we approach the one, the farther we recede from the other.
To death we owe our life; the passing of one generation opens a way for another.
What is taken from the fortune, also, may haply be so much lifted from the soul. The greatness of a loss, as the proverb suggests, is determinable, not so much by what we have lost, as by what we have left.
God has created too few unmixed evils to warrant the belief that death is one of them. In all things else in nature, goodness so abounds that we are authorized to infer that it does not stop even at the grave. It is only that her footprints have become invisible.
Wit must be without effort. Wit is play, not work; a nimbleness of the fancy, not a laborious effort of the will; a license, a holiday, a carnival of thought and feeling, not a trifling with speech, a constraint upon language, a duress upon words.
Panic is a sudden desertion of us, and a going over to the enemy of our imagination.
As threshing separates the wheat from the chaff, so does affliction purify virtue.
Earnestness is the devotion of all the faculties.
Living with a saint is more grueling than being one.
Passion looks not beyond the moment of its existence. Better, it says, the kisses of love to day, than the felicities of heaven afar off.
Nature has provided for the exigency of privation, by putting the measure of our necessities far below the measure of our wants. Our necessities are to our wants as Falstaff's pennyworth of bread to his any quantity of sack.
Tears are nature's lotion for the eyes. The eyes see better for being washed by them.
Enthusiasm is the inspiration of everything great. Without it no man is to be feared, and with it none despised.
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