Maidens, like moths, are ever caught, by glare, And Mammon wins his way where seraphs might despair.

I do not believe in any religion, I will have nothing to do with immortality. We are miserable enough in this life without speculating upon another.

Oh, for a forty-parson power to chant Thy praise, Hypocrisy! Oh, for a hymn Loud as the virtues thou dost loudly vaunt, Not practise!

I have imbibed such a love for money that I keep some sequins in a drawer to count, and cry over them once a week.

Of religion I know nothing -- at least, in its favor.

Though sages may pour out their wisdom's treasure, there is no sterner moralist than pleasure.

But quiet to quick bosoms is a hell.