I have always heard, Sancho, that doing good to base fellows is like throwing water into the sea.

The phoenix hope, can wing her way through the desert skies, and still defying fortune's spite; revive from ashes and rise.

Time ripens all things; no man is born wise.

A blot in thy escutcheon to all futurity.

Diligence is the mother of good fortune, and idleness, its opposite, never brought a man to the goal of any of his best wishes.

There is a strange charm in the thoughts of a good legacy, or the hopes of an estate, which wondrously removes or at least alleviates the sorrow that men would otherwise feel for the death of friends.

Well, now there's a remedy for everything except death.

And for the citation of so many authors, 'tis the easiest thing in nature. Find out one of these books with an alphabetical index, and without any farther ceremony, remove it verbatim into your own... there are fools enough to be thus drawn into an opinion of the work; at least, such a flourishing train of attendants will give your book a fashionable air, and recommend it for sale.

He is mad past recovery, but yet he has lucid intervals.

The eyes those silent tongues of love.