Books Are A Languid Pleasure.

Shame On All Eloquence Which Leaves Us With A Taste For Itself And Not For Its Substance.

Plenty And Indigence Depend Upon The Opinion Every One Has Of Them; And Riches, Like Glory Of Health, Have No More Beauty Or Pleasure Than Their Possessor Is Pleaded To Lend Them.

Every Movement Reveals Us.

It Is A Small Soul, Buried Beneath The Weight Of Affairs, That Does Not Know How To Get Clean Away From Them, That Cannot Put Them Aside And Pick Them Up Again.

The Way Of The World Is To Make Laws, But Follow Custom.