One Cannot Answer For His Courage When

Nature Seems At Each Man's Birth To Have Marked Out The Bounds Of His Virtues And Vices, And To Have Determined How Good Or How Wicked That Man Shall Be Capable Of Being.

Love, Like Fire, Cannot Subsist Without Constant Impulse; It Ceases To Live From The Moment It Ceases To Hope Or To Fear.

If We Have Not Peace Within Ourselves, It Is In Vain To Seek It From Outward Sources.

We Get So Much In The Habit Of Wearing Disguises Before Others That We Finally Appear Disguised Before Ourselves.

We Are Easily Comforted For The Misfortunes Of Our Friends, When Those Misfortunes Give Us An Occasion Of Expressing Our Affection And Solicitude.