Satire Is The Disease Of Art.

Most Benefactors Are Like Unskillful Generals Who Take The City And Leave The Citadel Intact.

His Passions Make Man Live, His Wisdom Merely Makes Him Last.

In Great Matters, Men Behave As They Are Expected To; In Little Ones, As They Would Naturally

Living Is A Sickness To Which Sleep Provides Relief Every Sixteen Hours. It's A Palliative. The Remedy Is Death.

We Gild Our Medicines With Sweets; Why Not Clothe Truth And Morals In Peasant Garments As Well?