It requires a long time to know anyone.

I follow a more easy, and, in my opinion, a wiser course, namely--to inveigh against the levity of the female sex, their fickleness, their double-dealing, their rotten promises, their broken faith, and, finally, their want of judgment in bestowing their affections.

Riches are of little avail in many of the calamities to which mankind are liable.

Inasmuch as ill-deeds spring up as a spontaneous crop, they are easy to learn.

Reading Don Quixote can be compared to an indefinite visit from your most impossible senior relative, with all his pranks, dirty habits, unstoppable reminiscences, and terrible cronies. When the experience is over, and the old boy checks out at last (on page 846 - the prose wedged tight, with no breaks for dialogue), you will shed tears all right; not tears of relief or regret but tears of pride. You made it, despite all that 'Don Quixote' could do.

Arms are my ornaments, warfare my repose.

The woman who is resolved to be respected can make herself be so even amidst an army of soldiers.