The Covetous Man Never Has Money. The

Opinion Is A Light, Vain, Crude, And Imperfect Thing.

The Poet Is The Nearest Borderer Upon The Orator.

Words Borrowed Of Antiquity Do Lend A Kind Of Majesty To Style, And Are Not Without Their Delight Sometimes. For They Have The Authority Of Years, And Out Of Their Intermission Do Win To Themselves A Kind Of Grace-like Newness. But The Eldest Of The Present, And Newest Of The Past Language, Is The Best.

Forbear, You Things That Stand Upon The Pinnacles Of State, To Boast Your Slippery Height! When You Do Fall, You Dash Yourselves In Pieces, Ne'er To Rise: And He That Lends You Pity, Is Not Wise.

One Woman Reads Another's Character Without The Tedious Trouble Of Deciphering