Custom is a violent and treacherous school mistress. She, by little and lithe, slyly and unperceived, slips in the foot of her authority; but having by this gentle and humble beginning, with the benefit of time, fixed and established it, she then unmasks a furious and tyrannic countenance, against which we have no more the courage or the power so much as to lift up our eyes.

The truth of these days is not that which really is, but what every man persuades another man to believe.

It costs an unreasonable woman no more to pass over one reason than another; they cherish themselves most where they are most wrong.

Rash and incessant scolding runs into custom and renders itself despised.

Give me the provisions and whole apparatus of a kitchen, and I would starve.

Intemperance is the plaque of sensuality, and temperance is not its bane but its seasoning.

He whose mouth is out of taste says the wine is flat.