In my time, the follies of the town crept slowly among us, but now they travel faster than a stagecoach.

Blest that abode, where want and pain repair, And every stranger finds a ready chair.

Don't let us make imaginary evils, when you know we have so many real ones to encounter.

Good people all, with one accord, Lament for Madam Blaize, Who never wanted a good word From those who spoke her praise.

Friendship is a disinterested commerce between equals; love, an abject intercourse between tyrants and slaves.

Fear guides more to their duty than gratitude; for one man who is virtuous from the love of virtue, from the obligation he thinks he lies under to the Giver of all, there are ten thousand who are good only from their apprehension of punishment.

Both wit and understanding are trifles without integrity.