Is that a birthday? 'tis, alas! too clear; 'Tis but the funeral of the former year.
You purchase pain with all that joy can give and die of nothing but a rage to live.
The finest minds, like the finest metals, dissolve the easiest.
Our passions are like convulsion fits, which, though they make us stronger for a time, leave us the weaker ever after.
The vulgar boil, the learned roast, an egg.
The bookful blockhead, ignorantly read With loads of learned lumber in his head.