It can't be Nature, for it is not sense.

When fiction rises pleasing to the eye, men will believe, because they love the lie; but truth herself, if clouded with a frown, must have some solemn proof to pass her down.

Patience is sorrow's salve.

With various readings stored his empty skull, Learn'd without sense, and venerably dull.

England a fortune-telling host, As num'rous as the stars, could boast; Matrons, who toss the cup, and see The grounds of Fate in grounds of tea.

Those who would make us feel must feel themselves.

The best things carried to excess are wrong.