A disputant no more cares for the truth than the sportsman for the hare.

Behold the groves that shine with silver frost, their beauty withered, and their verdure lost!

Whoever thinks a faultless piece to see, Thinks what ne'er was, nor is, nor e'er shall be.

Rogues in rags are kept in countenance by rogues in ruffles.

Curse on all laws but those which love has made.

Lulled in the countless chambers of the brain, our thoughts are linked by many a hidden chain; awake but one, and in, what myriads rise!

Virtue alone is happiness below.