Nature has provided for the exigency of privation, by putting the measure of our necessities far below the measure of our wants. Our necessities are to our wants as Falstaff's pennyworth of bread to his any quantity of sack.

The great artist is a slave to his ideals.

Neither love nor ambition, as it has often been shown, can brook a division of its empire in the heart.

Discretion is the salt, and fancy the sugar of life; the one preserves, the other sweetens it.

Fortune, like a coy mistress, loves to yield her favors, though she makes us wrest them from her.

There are some weaknesses that are peculiar and distinctive to generous characters, as freckles are to a fair skin.

Pride is like the beautiful acacia, that lifts its head proudly above its neighbor plants-forgetting that it too, like them, has its roots in the dirt.