Cunning is neither the consequence of sense, nor does it give sense. A proof that it is not sense, is that cunning people never imagine that others can see through them. It is the consequence of weakness.

Oh that I were seated as high as my ambition, I'd place my naked foot on the necks of monarchs.

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

At last some curious traveller from Lima will visit England, and give a description of the ruins of St. Paul's, like the editions of Baalbec and Palmyra.

We often repent of our first thoughts, and scarce ever of our second.

The wisest prophets make sure of the event first.

It is charming to totter into vogue.