In solitude, where we are least alone.

There is something pagan in me that I cannot shake off. In short, I deny nothing, but doubt everything.

If I am fool, it is, at least, a doubting one; and I envy no one the certainty of his self-approved wisdom.

This sort of adoration of the real is but a heightening of the beau ideal.

There is no sterner moralist than pleasure.

Whenever I meet with anything agreeable in this world it surprises me so much -- and pleases me so much (when my passions are not interested in one way or the other) that I go on wondering for a week to come.

The dew of compassion is a tear.

So for a good old-gentlemanly vice, I think I must take up with avarice.

Her great merit is finding out mine -- there is nothing so amiable as discernment.

Thy decay's still impregnate with divinity.