The clouds may drop down titles and estates, and wealth may seek us, but wisdom must be sought.

What ardently we wish, we soon believe.

How poor, how rich, how abject, how august, How complicate, how wonderful, is man!... Midway from nothing to the Deity!

The man that blushes is not quite a brute.

I've known my lady (for she loves a tune) For fevers take an opera in June: And, though perhaps you'll think the practice bold, A midnight park is sov'reign for a cold.

An angel's arm can't snatch me from the grave; legions of angels can't confine me there.

Tomorrow is the day when idlers work, and fools reform and mortal men lay hold on heaven.