No one but a fool would measure their satisfaction by what the world thinks of it.
We are all sure of two things, at least; we shall suffer and we shall all die.
Elegy on the Death of a Mad Dog And in that town a dog was found, As many dogs there be, Both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound, And curs of low degree.
Our pleasures are short, and can only charm at intervals; love is a method of protraction our greatest pleasure.
To make a fine gentleman, several trades are required, but chiefly a barber.
Conscience is a coward, and those faults it has not strength enough to prevent it seldom has justice enough to accuse.