Virtue is a beautiful thing in woman when they don't go about with it like a child with a drum making all sorts of noise with it.

What women would do if they could not cry, nobody knows. What poor, defenceless creatures they would be!

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.

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

We love peace, as we abhor pusillanimity; but not peace at any price.

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

We are all slaves to the shining metal.