Poetry is a beautiful way of spoiling prose, and the laborious art of exchanging plain sense for harmony.

I can forgive injuries, but never benefits.

The wisest prophets make sure of the event first.

An ancient prophecy ... pronounced, That the castle and lordship of Otranto should pass from the present family, whenever the real owner should be grown too large to inhabit it!

A man of sense, though born without wit, often lives to have wit. His memory treasures up ideas and reflections; he compares themwith new occurrences, and strikes out new lights from the collision. The consequence is sometimes bons mots, and sometimes apothegms.

Serendipitous discoveries are made by chance, found without looking for them but possible only through a sharp vision and sagacity, ready to see the unexpected and never indulgent with the apparently unexplainable.

Our [British] summers are often, though beautiful for verdure, so cold, that they are rather cold winters.