Tho marriage be a lottery in which there are a wondrous many blanks, yet there is one inestimable lot in which the only heaven on earth is written.

Love, like virtue, is its own reward.

Friendship's said to be a plant of tedious growth, its root composed of tender fibers, nice in their taste, cautious in spreading.

Repentance for past crimes is just and easy; but sin-no-more's a task too hard for mortals

Love's like virtue, its own reward.

No man is worth having is true to his wife, or can be true to his wife, or ever was, or ever will be so.

Custom is the law of fools.