Hate is by far the greatest pleasure; men love in haste, but detest in leisure.

Absence – that common cure of love.

The poor dog, in life the firmest friend, the first to welcome, the foremost to defend.

I have great hopes that we shall love each other all our lives as much as if we had never married at all.

Fools are my theme, let satire be my song.

Are not the mountains, waves, and skies as much a part of me, as I of them?

Like the measles, love is most dangerous when it comes late in life.

There is no instinct like that of the heart.

But what is Hope? Nothing but the paint on the face of Existence; the least touch of truth rubs it off, and then we see what a hollow-cheeked harlot we have got hold of.

I have not loved the world, nor the world me, but let us part fair foes; I do believe, though I have found them not, that there may be words which are things, hopes which will not deceive, and virtues which are merciful, or weave snares for the failing: I would also deem o’er others’ griefs that some sincerely grieve; that two, or one, are almost what they seem, that goodness is no name, and happiness no dream.