Grief Is A Species Of Idleness.

Round Numbers Are Always False.

Shame Arises From The Fear Of Men, Conscience From The Fear Of God.

Spring Is The Season Of Gaiety, And Winter Of Terror; In Spring The Heart Of Tranquility Dances To The Melody Of The Groves, And The Eye Of Benevolence Sparkles At The Sight Of Happiness And Plenty: In Winter, Compassion Melts At Universal Calamity, And The Tear Of Softness Starts At The Wailing Of Hunger And The Cries Of The Creation In Distress

Hope Itself Is A Species Of Happiness, And, Perhaps, The Chief Happiness Which This World Affords; But, Like All Other Pleasures Immoderately Enjoyed, The Excesses Of Hope Must Be Expiated By Pain.

If One Was To Think Constantly Of Death, The Business Of Life Would Stand Still