Everyone desires long life, not one old age.
Every age might perhaps produce one or two geniuses, if they were not sunk under the censure and obloquy of plodding, servile, imitating pedants.
Lord, Madame, I have fed like a farmer; I shall grow as fat as a porpoise.
There is no vice which mankind carries to such wild extremes as that of avarice.
Bread is the staff of life.
Under the rose, since here are none but friends, To own the truth we have some private ends.