But Love's A Malady Without A Cure.

We First Make Our Habits, And Then Our Habits Make Us.

Criticism Is Now Become Mere Hangman's Work, And Meddles Only With The Faults Of Authors ; Nay, The Critic Is Disgusted Less With Their Absurdities Than Excellence ; And You Cannot Displease Him More Than In Leaving Him Little Room For His Malice.

For What Can Power Give More Than Food And Drink, To Live At Ease, And Not Be Bound To Think?

She Feared No Danger, For She Knew No Sin.

The Thought Of Being Nothing After Death Is A Burden Insupportable To A Virtuous Man.