If you do your fair day's work, you are certain to get your fair day's wage - in praise or pudding, whichever happens to suit your taste.

The sea complains upon a thousand shores.

A man's real possession is his memory. In nothing else is he rich, in nothing else is he poor.

Fame is but an inscription on a grave, and glory the melancholy blazon on a coffin lid.

Pleasure has no logic; it never treads in its own footsteps.

There is a certain even-handed justice in Time; and for what he takes away he gives us something in return. He robs us of elasticity of limb and spirit, and in its place he brings tranquility and repose—the mild autumnal weather of the soul.

Sweet April's tears, Dead on the hem of May.