We Are Ourselves Our Happiness.

In Sad Truth, Half Our Forebodings Of Our Neighbors Are But Our Own Wishes, Which We Are Ashamed To Utter In Any Other Form.

A Friend Is Never Alarmed For Us In The Right Place.

There Is No Wretchedness Like Self-reproach.

I Do Not Think That Life Has A Suspense More Sickening Than That Of Expecting A Letter Which Does Not Come.

There Is No Existence So Content As That Whose Present Is Engrossed By Employment, And Whose Future Is Filled By Some Strong Hope, The Truth Of Which Is Never Proved. Toil And Illusion Are The Only Secrets To Make Life Tolerable.