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.

Slugs crawl and crawl over our cabbages, like the world's slander over a good name. You may kill them, it is true; but there is the slime.

A man, so to speak, who is not able to bow to his own conscience every morning is hardly in a condition to respectfully salute the world at any other time of the day.

That man is thought a dangerous knave, Or zealot plotting crime, Who for advancement of his kind Is wiser than his time.

Love the sea? I dote upon it--from the beach.

A coquette is like a recruiting sergeant, always on the lookout for fresh victims.

Luck, mere luck may make even madness wisdom.