Darkness and light divide the course of time, and oblivion snares with memory, a great part even of our living beings; we slightly remember our felicities, and the smartest strokes of affliction leave but short smart upon us. Sense endureth no extremities, and sorrows destroy us or themselves. To weep into stones are fables.

The night of time far surpasseth the day, and who knows when was the ?quinox?

But man is a Noble Animal, splendid in ashes, and pompous in the grave, solemnizing Nativities and Deaths with equal lustre, nor omitting Ceremonies of Bravery…

Oblivion is not to be hired: The greater part must be content to be as though they had not been, to be found in the Register of God, not in the record of man.

Red Rose, proud Rose, sad Rose of all my days! Come near me, while I sing the ancient ways.

The want of logic annoys. Too much logic bores. Life eludes logic, and everything that logic alone constructs remains artificial and forced.

La joie d'une mere est une lumiere qui jaillit jusque sur l'avenir et le lui eclaire, mais qui se reflete sur le passe pour lui donner le charme des souvenirs.