In those vernal seasons of the year when the air is calm and pleasant, it were an injury and sullenness against nature not to go out and see her riches, and partake in her rejoicing with heaven and earth.
All is not lost, the unconquerable will, and study of revenge, immortal hate, and the courage never to submit or yield.
Death is the golden key that opens the palace of eternity.
What hath night to do with sleep?
Never can true reconcilement grow where wounds of deadly hate have pierced so deep...
The mind is its own place, and in itself, can make heaven of Hell, and a hell of Heaven.
Nothing profits more than self-esteem, grounded on what is just and right.
Implied Subjection, but requir’d with gentle sway, And by her yielded, by him best receiv’d,- Yielded with coy submission, modest pride, And sweet, reluctant, amorous delay.
True it is that covetousness is rich, modesty starves.
This is the month, and this the happy morn, wherein the Son of heaven’s eternal King, of wedded Maid and Virgin Mother born, our great redemption from above did bring.
I will not deny but that the best apology against false accusers is silence and sufferance, and honest deeds set against dishonest words.
Luck is the residue of design.
Loneliness is the first thing which God’s eye named not good.
Biochemically, love is just like eating large amounts of chocolate.
This horror will grow mild, this darkness light.
Innocence, Once Lost, Can Never Be Regained. Darkness, Once Gazed Upon, Can Never Be Lost.
The martyrs shook the powers of darkness with the irresistible power of weakness.
I cannot praise a fugitive and cloistered virtue, unexercised and unbreathed, that never sallies out and sees her adversary, but slinks out of the race where that immortal garland is to be run for, not without dust and heat.
O welcome pure-eyed Faith, white handed Hope, Thou hovering angel girt with golden wings.
Such sweet compulsion doth in music lie.