Mirth is like a flash of lightning, that breaks through a gloom of clouds, and glitters for a moment; cheerfulness keeps up a kind of daylight in the mind, and fills it with a steady and perpetual serenity.
(Joseph Addison (1672-1719), British essayist. Spectator (London, May 17, 1712), no. 381, The Spectator, ed. D.F. Bond (1965).)
How often we must remember the art of the surgeon, which, in replacing the broken bone, contents itself with releasing the parts from false position; they fly into place by the action of the muscles. On this art of nature all our arts rely.
(Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803-1882), U.S. essayist, poet, philosopher. "Wealth," The Conduct of Life (1860).
Here, as in many other places, Emerson implores us to follow the natural flow of nature, even in seemingly extra-natural settings.)
How the mother is to be pitied who hath handsome daughters! Locks, bolts, bars, and lectures of morality are nothing to them: they break through them all. They have as much pleasure in cheating a father and mother, as in cheating at cards.
(John Gay (1685-1732), British dramatist. Mrs. Peachum, in The Beggar's Opera, act 1, sc. 8.)