That famish'd people must be slowly nurst, and fed by spoonfuls, else they always burst.
Death, so called, is a thing which makes men weep, And yet a third of life is passed in sleep.
In itself a thought, a slumbering thought is capable of years; and curdles a long life into one hour.
No hand can make the clock strike for me the hours that are passed.
Bologna is celebrated for producing popes, painters, and sausage.
I am so convinced of the advantages of looking at mankind instead of reading about them, . . . that I think there should be a law amongst us to set our young men abroad for a term among the few allies our wars have left us.