And Tragedy should blush as much to stoop To the low mimic follies of a farce, As a grave matron would to dance with girls.

The cook cares not a bit for toil, toil, if the fowl be plump and fat

Difficulties elicit talents that in more fortunate circumstances would lie dormant.

Blind self-love, vanity, lifting aloft her empty head, and indiscretion, prodigal of secrets more transparent than glass, follow close behind.

Music is an incitement to love.

Rains driven by storms fall not perpetually on the land already sodden, neither do varying gales for ever disturb the Caspian sea.

Hidden knowledge differs little from ignorance.