Authors, like coins, grow dear as they grow old.
Old men, for the most part, are like old chronicles that give you dull but true accounts of times past, and are worth knowing only on that score.
Whoe'er he be That tells my faults, I hate him mortally.
No writing is good that does not tend to better mankind in some way or other.
Oft in dreams invention we bestow to change a flounce or add a furbelow.
Love finds an altar for forbidden fires.