Facts are the enemy of truth.

The poet may say or sing, not as things were, but as they ought to have been; but the historian must pen them, not as they ought to have been, but as they really were.

Modesty, tis a virtue not often found among poets, for almost every one of them thinks himself the greatest in the world.

Nay, what is worse, perhaps turn poet, which, they say, is an infectious and incurable distemper.

It seldom happens that any felicity comes so pure as not to be tempered and allayed by some mixture of sorrow.

And thus being totally preoccupied, he rode so slowly that the sun was soon glowing with such intense heat that it would have melted his brains, if he'd had any.

Digo, paciencia y barajar. What I say is, patience, and shuffle the cards.