Solitude Begets Whimsies.

I Am Afraid We Are Little Better Than Straws Upon The Water; We May Flatter Ourselves That We Swim, When The Current Carries Us Along.

Nobody Can Deny But Religion Is A Comfort To The Distressed, A Cordial To The Sick, And Sometimes A Restraint On The Wicked.

How Many Thousands ... Earnestly Seeking What They Do Not Want, While They Neglect The Real Blessings In Their Possession -- I Mean The Innocent Gratification Of Their Senses, Which Is All We Can Properly Call Our Own.

One Would Suffer A Great Deal To Be Happy.

Remember My Unalterable Maxim, "when We Love, We Always Have Something To Say.