And Plenty Makes Us Poor.

Death In Itself Is Nothing; But We Fear To Be We Know Not What, We Know Not Where.

For Those Whom God To Ruin Has Design'd, He Fits For Fate, And First Destroys Their Mind.

A Man Is To Be Cheated Into Passion, But To Be Reasoned Into Truth.

The Commendation Of Adversaries Is The Greatest Triumph Of A Writer, Because It Never Comes Unless Extorted.

Beauty, Like Ice, Our Footing Does Betray; Who Can Tread Sure On The Smooth, Slippery Way: Pleased With The Surface, We Glide Swiftly On, And See The Dangers That We Cannot Shun.