We do not go to the theatre like our ancestors, to escape from the pressure of reality, so much as to confirm our experience of it.

He has left off reading altogether, to the great improvement of his originality.

When true hearts lie wither'd And fond ones are flown, Oh, who would inhabit This bleak world alone?

You may derive thoughts from others; your way of thinking, the mould in which your thoughts are cast, must be your own.

The drinking man is never less himself than during his sober intervals.

I like you and your book, ingenious Hone! In whose capacious all-embracing leaves The very marrow of tradition 's shown; And all that history, much that fiction weaves.

To sigh, yet feel no pain; To weep, yet scarce know why; To sport an hour with Beauty's chain, Then throw it idly by.