Remorse Is The Fruit Of Crime.

When Did Reason Ever Direct Our Desires Or Our Fears?

Travelers With Naught Sing In The Robber's Face

An Incurable Itch For Scribbling Takes Possession Of Many, And Grows Inveterate In Their Insane Breasts.

O Poverty, Thy Thousand Ills Combined Sink Not So Deep Into The Generous Mind, As The Contempt And Laughter Of Mankind.

Men Who Ape The Saint And Play The Sinner.