Habit is Heaven's own redress: it takes the place of happiness.

Love passed, the Muse appeared, the weather of mind got clarity new-found; now free, I once more weave together emotion, thought, and magic sound.

The less we show our love to a woman, Or please her less, and neglect our duty, The more we trap and ruin her surely In the flattering toils of philandery.

The illness with which he'd been smitten should have been analysed when caught, something like spleen, that scourge of Britain, or Russia's chondria, for short.

A happy man is too satisfied with the present to dwell too much on the future.

The one who is happy can never get too early out of bed.

If solid happiness we prize, Within our breast this jewel lies, And they are fools who roam. The world has nothing to bestow; From our own selves our joys must…