True Wit, To Every Man, Is That

All Schools Of Philosophy, And Almost All Authors, Are Rather To Be Frequented For Exercise Than For Weight.

We Cannot Be Contented Because We Are Happy, And We Cannot Be Happy Because We Are Contented.

But I Have Sinuous Shells Of Pearly Hue Within, And They That Lustre Have Imbibed In The Sun's Palace-porch, Where When Unyoked Chariot-wheel Stands Midway In The Wave: Shake One, And It Awakens; Then Apply Its Polisht Lips To Your Attentive Ear, And It Remembers Its August Abodes, And Murmurs As The Ocean Murmurs There.

Goodness Does Not More Certainly Make Men Happy Than Happiness Makes Them Good.

Authors Are Like Cattle Going To A Fair: Those Of The Same Field Can Never Move On Without Butting One Another.