He who without the Muse's madness in his soul comes knocking at the door of poesy and thinks that art will make him anything fit to be called a poet, finds that the poetry which he indites in his sober senses is beaten hollow by the poetry of madmen.

Fly from the company of the wicked--fly and turn not back.

Most people affirm pleasure to be the good, but the finer sort of wits say it is knowledge.

Thinking is the soul talking to itself.

The best stomachs are not those which reject all foods.

You can remember, a single deluge only, but there were many previous ones.

Love is a grave mental illness.