Few friendships could survive the moodiness of love affairs.

The vices of youth now exceed my powers, but not my fancy.

At the end of every diet, the path curves back to the trough.

I gulp down my pleasures, chew over my miseries.

Sloth, not ill-will, makes me unjust.

My father liked to moralize, and so do I. But he was in earnest, while I am embarrassed and pretend that I am merely being witty.

Fear of my cruel impulses makes me kind.