Anticipation Is A Bad Sleeping Draught.

There Is No Existence So Content As That Whose Present Is Engrossed By Employment, And Whose Future Is Filled By Some Strong Hope, The Truth Of Which Is Never Proved. Toil And Illusion Are The Only Secrets To Make Life Tolerable.

Conscience, Like A Child, Is Soon Lulled To Sleep.

In Came ... A Baby, Eloquent As Infancy Usually Is, And Like Most Youthful Orators, More Easily Heard Than Understood.

No Thoroughly Occupied Man Was Ever Yet Very Miserable.

To Be Rude Is As Good As Being Clever.