As I approach a second childhood, I endeavor to enter into the pleasures of it.
Men are vile inconstant toads.
No modest man ever did or ever will make a fortune.
Copiousness of words, however ranged, is always false eloquence, though it will ever impose on some sort of understandings.
A face is too slight a foundation for happiness.
It goes far towards reconciling me to being a woman, when I reflect that I am thus in no danger of ever marrying one.