Love never reasons, but profusely gives; it gives like a thoughtless prodigal its all, and then trembles least it has done to little.

I am persuaded that there is no affection of the human heart more exquisitely pure, than that which is felt by a grateful son towards a mother...

The secret heart is fair devotion’s temple; there the saint, even on that living altar, lights the flame of purest sacrifice, which burns unseen, not unaccepted.

To hint at a fault does more mischief than speaking out; for whatever is left for the imagination to finish will not fail to be overdone...

Love never reasons, but profusely gives; it gives like a thoughtless prodigal its all, and then trembles least it has done to little...

Anger is a violent act, envy a constant habit – no one can be always angry, but he may be always envious...

No adulation; ’tis the death of virtue; Who flatters, is of all mankind the lowest Save he who courts the flattery.

Luxury and dissipation, soft and gentle as their approaches are, and silently as they throw their silken chains about the heart, enslave it more than the most active and turbulent vices.

If faith produce no works, I see That faith is not a living tree. Thus faith and works together grow, No separate life they never can know. They’re soul and body, hand and heart, What God hath joined, let no man part.

He who has once taken to drink can seldom be said to be guilty of one sin only...