The best prophet of the future is the past.

And angling too, that solitary vice, What Izaak Walton sings or says: The quaint, old, cruel coxcomb, in his gullet Should have a hook, and a small trout to pull it.

As soon seek roses in December, ice in June, Hope constancy in wind, or corn in chaff Believe a woman or an epitaph Or any other thing that’s false Before you trust in critics.

To withdraw myself from myself has ever been my sole, my entire, my sincere motive in scribbling at all.

Friendship is Love without his wings!

Romances I ne'er read like those I have seen.

I only go out to get me a fresh appetite for being alone.