Women, as they are like riddles in being unintelligible, so generally resemble them in this, that they please us no longer once we know them.

Yes, I am proud; I must be proud to see Men not afraid of God, afraid of me.

On wrongs swift vengeance waits.

Beauty draws us with a single hair.

Is that a birthday? 'tis, alas! too clear; 'Tis but the funeral of the former year.

Not to go back is somewhat to advance, and men must walk, at least, before they dance.

The race by vigour, not by vaunts, is won.