'Tis now the summer of your youth: time has not cropped the roses from your cheek, though sorrow long has washed them.

I am rich beyond the dreams of avarice.

Beauty has wings, and too hastily flies, and love, unrewarded, soon sickens and dies.

Other men it is said have seen angels, but I have seen thee and thou art enough.

The lot of critics is to be remembered by what they failed to understand.

If I am asked 'what is good?' my answer is that good is good, and that is the end of the matter.

Ay, rail at gaming - 'tis a rich topic, and affords noble declamation. Go, preach against it in the city - you'll find a congregation in every tavern.