The well of true wit is truth itself.
The most dire disaster in love is the death of imagination.
The man who has no mind of his own lends it to the priests.
I know him, February's thrush, And loud at eve he valentines On sprays that paw the naked bush Where soon will sprout the thorns and bines.
Memoirs are the backstairs of history.
When I was quite a boy I had a spasm of religion which lasted six weeks... But I never since have swallowed the Christian fable.