Many a truth is told in jest.
Books, the children of the brain.
I have always a sacred veneration for anyone I observe to be a little out of repair in his person, as supposing him either a poet or a philosopher.
A chuck under the chin is worth two kisses.
Falsehood flies, and the truth comes limping after it.
A true critic, in the perusal of a book, is like a dog at a feast, whose thoughts and stomach are wholly set upon what the guests fling away, and consequently is apt to snarl most when there are the fewest bones.