Nothing but truth is lovely, nothing fair.

Of all the creatures that creep, swim, or fly, Peopling the earth, the waters, and the sky, From Rome to Iceland, Paris to Japan, I really think the greatest fool is man.

But satire, ever moral, ever new, Delights the reader and instructs him, too. She, if good sense refine her sterling page, Oft shakes some rooted folly of the age.

The dreadful burden of having nothing to do.

It is in vain a daring author thinks of attaining to the heights of Parnassus if he does not feel the secret influence of heaven and if his natal star has not formed him to be a poet.

He [Moliere] pleases all the world, but cannot please himself.

Honor is like an island, rugged and without a beach; once we have left it, we can never return.