We Must Eat To Live, And Not

Great Vices Are The Proper Objects Of Our Detestation, Smaller Faults Of Our Pity, But Affectation Appears To Be The Only True Source Of The Ridiculous.

Custom May Lead A Man Into Many Errors; But It Justifies None.

When Widows Exclaim Loudly Against Second Marriages, I Would Always Lay A Wager Than The Man, If Not The Wedding Day, Is Absolutely Fixed On.

When I'm Not Thanked At All, I'm Thanked Enough.

No Acquisitions Of Guilt Can Compensate The Loss Of That Solid Inward Comfort Of Mind, Which Is The Sure Companion Of Innocence And Virtue; Nor Can In The Least Balance The Evil Of That Horror And Anxiety Which, In Their Room, Guilt Introduces Into Our Bosoms.