A vigorous mind is as necessarily accompanied with violent passions as a great fire with great heat.—Burke.
There are moments when our passions speak and decide for us, and we seem to stand by and wonder. They carry in them an inspiration of crime, that in one instant does the work of long premeditation.—George Eliot.
The blossoms of passion, gay and luxuriant flowers, are brighter and fuller of fragrance, but they beguile us and lead us astray, and their odor is deadly.—Longfellow.
"All the passions," says an old writer, "are such near neighbors, that if one of them is on fire the others should send for the buckets." Thus love and hate being both passions, the one is never safe from the spark that sets the other ablaze. But contempt is passionless; it does not catch, it quenches fire.—Bulwer-Lytton.
All the passions seek after whatever nourishes them. Fear loves the idea of danger.—Joubert.
It is the excess and not the nature of our passions which is perishable. Like the trees which grow by the tomb of Protesilaus, the passions flourish till they reach a certain height, but no sooner is that height attained than they wither away.—Bulwer-Lytton.
Past.—Let the dead past bury its dead.—Longfellow.
Oh vanished times! splendors eclipsed for aye! Oh suns behind the horizon that have set.—Victor Hugo.
It is to live twice, when we can enjoy the recollections of our former life.—Martial.
I desire no future that will break the ties of the past.—George Eliot.