Let No Such Man Be Trusted.

A College Of Wit-crackers Cannot Flout Me Out Of My Humor. Dost Thou Think I Care For A Satire Or An Epigram?

At Christmas I No More Desire A Rose Than Wish A Snow In May's New-fangled Mirth; But Like Of Each Thing That In Season Grows.

Ideas Are The Very Coinage Of Your Brain.

When We Our Betters See Bearing Our Woes, We Scarcely Think Our Miseries Our Foes.

Nature Hath Framed Strange Fellows In Her Time.