Our Spirits Grow Gray Before Our Hairs.

In Some Respects The Better A Book Is, The Less It Demands From The Binding.

Clap An Extinguisher Upon Your Irony If You Are Unhappily Blessed With A Vein Of It.

The World Meets Nobody Half Way.

There Is A Pleasure In Affecting Affectation.

I Grow Ominously Tired Of Official Confinement. Thirty Years Have I Served The Philistines, And My Neck Is Not Subdued To The Yoke. You Don't Know How Wearisome It Is To Breathe The Air Of Four Pent Walls Without Relief Day After Day, All The Golden Hours Of The Day Between Ten And Four Without Ease Or Interposition ... These Pestilential Clerk-faces Always In One's Dish. O For A Few Years Between The Grave And The Desk!