Striving is perhaps the one and only true elixir, for while we converse with what is above us, we do not grow old, but grow young.

Every principle is a war-note. Whoever attempts to carry out the rule of right and love and freedom must take his life in his hand.

There was never a child so lovely but his mother was glad to get him asleep.

When we are young, we spend much time and pains in filling our note-books with all definitions of Religion, Love, Poetry, Politics, Art, in the hope that, in the course of a few years, we shall have condensed into our encyclopaedia the net value of all the theories at which the world has yet arrived. But year after year our tables get no completeness, and at last we discover that our curve is a parabola, whose arcs will never meet.

As we grow old, the beauty steals inward.

Manners make the fortune of the ambitious youth