Fools Rush In Where Angels Fear To

Worth Makes The Man, And Want Of It The Fellow; The Rest Is All But Leather And Prunello.

There Should Be, Methinks, As Little Merit In Loving A Woman For Her Beauty As In Loving A Man For His Prosperity; Both Being Equally Subject To Change.

A Family Is But Too Often A Commonwealth Of Malignants.

Love Seldom Haunts The Breast Where Learning Lies, And Venus Sets Ere Mercury Can Rise.

The Dull Flat Falsehood Serves For Policy, And In The Cunning, Truth's Itself A Lie.