Whence is thy learning? Hath thy toil O'er books consumed the midnight oil?

I hate the man who builds his name On ruins of another's fame. Thus prudes, by characters o'erthrown, Imagine that they raise their own. Thus Scribblers, covetous of praise, Think slander can transplant the bays.

A man is always afraid of a woman that loves him too much

Gamesters and highwaymen are generally very good to their whores, but they are very devils to their wives.

Man may escape from rope and gun; Nay, some have outlived the doctor's pill: Who takes a woman must be undone, That basilisk is sure to kill. The fly that sips treacle is lost in the sweets, So he that tastes woman, woman, woman, He that tastes woman, ruin meets.

And when a lady's in the case, You know, all other things give place.

I never, with important air, In conversation overbear. . . . . My tongue within my lips I rein; For who talks much must talk in vain.