I cannot sit and think; books think for me.

Fly not yet; 't is just the hour When pleasure, like the midnight flower That scorns the eye of vulgar light, Begins to bloom for sons of night And maids who love the moon.

The only true time which a man can properly call his own, is that which he has all to himself; the rest, though in some sense he may be said to live it, is other people's time, not his.

I cannot sit and think; books think for me.

New Year's Day is every man's birthday.

Newspapers always excite curiosity. No one ever puts one down without the feeling of disappointment.

To be thankful for what we grasp exceeding our proportion is to add hypocrisy to injustice.