Joys Are Our Wings, Sorrows

If Self-knowledge Is The Road To Virtue, So Is Virtue Still More The Road To Self-knowledge.

Variety Of Mere Nothings Gives More Pleasure Than Uniformity Of Something.

I Would Rather Dwell In The Dim Fog Of Superstition Than In Air Rarefied To Nothing By The Air-pump Of Unbelief-in Which The Panting Breast Expires, Vainly And Convulsively Gasping For Breath.

Poverty Is The Only Load Which Is The Heavier The More Loved Ones There Are To Assist In Bearing It.

Sorrows Are Like Thunderclouds, In The Distance They Look Black, Over Our Heads Scarcely Gray.