Love is the crowning grace of humanity.

Books have led some to learning and others to madness.

Who naught suspects is easily deceived.

Man has no greater enemy than himself. I have acted contrary to my sentiments and inclination; throughout our whole lives we do what we never intended, and what we proposed to do, we leave undone.

To be able to say how much love, is love but little.

Go mortals, sweat, pant, toil, range the lands and seas to pile up riches you cannot keep; glory that will not last. The life we lead is a sleep; whatever we do, dreams. Only death breaks the sleep and wakes us from dreaming. I wish I could have woken before this.

Nothing mortal is enduring, and there is nothing sweet which does not presently end in bitterness.

Never would I trade for some new shape
that laurel I was first, in whose sweet shade
all other pleasures vanish in my heart.

I desire that death find me ready and writing, or if it please Christ, praying and intears.

There is no lighter burden, nor more agreeable, than a pen.

I rejoiced in my progress, mourned my weaknesses, and commiserated the universal instability of human conduct.

I feed my heart with sighs, that's all it asks,
I live on tears, I think I'm born to weep;
I don't complain of that, since in my state
weeping is sweeter than you might believe.

Continued work and application form my soul's nourishment. So soon as I commenced to rest and relax I should cease to live.

And tears are heard within the harp I touch.

Ruthless striving, overcomes everything.

Go, grieving rimes of mine, to that hard stone

Whereunder lies my darling, lies my dear,

And cry to her to speak from heaven's sphere.

Death had his grudge against me, and he got up in the way, like an

armed robber, with a pike in his hand.

Books never pall on me. They discourse with us, they take counsel with us, and are united to us by a certain living chatty familiarity. And not only does each book inspire the sense that it belongs to its readers, but it also suggests the name of others, and one begets the desire of the other.

I looked back at the summit of the mountain, which seemed but a cubit high in comparison with the height of human contemplation, were in not too often merged in the corruptions of the earth.

What name to call thee by, O virgin fair, I know not, for thy looks are not of earth And more than mortal seems thy countenances.