When We Love, It Is

Common Sense Suits Itself To The Ways Of The World. Wisdom Tries To Confirm To The Ways Of Heaven.

Misery Is Almost Always The Result Of Thinking.

Taste Is The Literary Conscience Of The Soul.

We Are All Of Us More Or Less Echoes, Repeating Involuntarily The Virtues, The Defects, The Movements, And The Characters Of Those Among Whom We Live.

Without Duty, Life Is Sort Of Boneless; It Cannot Hold Itself Together.