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

But from the hoop's bewitching round, Her very shoe has power to wound.

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

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

Honesty needs no pains to set itself off.

I am rich beyond the dreams of avarice.

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