Intemperance is the epitome of every crime, the cause of every kind of misery.

Wits, like drunken men with swords, are apt to draw their steel upon their best acquaintances.

Modesty is a bright dish-cover, which makes us fancy there is something very nice underneath it.

A man is in no danger so long as he talks his love; but to write it is to impale himself on his own pothooks.

Happiness grows at our own firesides, and is not to be picked in strangers' gardens.

O this itch of the ear, that breaks out at the tongue! Were not curiosity so over-busy, detraction would soon be starved to death.

Intemperance is the epitome of every crime, the cause of every kind of misery.