Few Minds Wear Out; More Rust Out.

The Finest Compliment That Can Be Paid To A Woman Of Sense Is To Address Her As Such.

Life Is Indeed Either A Rich Possession Or A Poor, According As It Is Made Subservient To Noble Aims Or Ignoble Pleasures.

Wit Must Be Without Effort. Wit Is Play, Not Work; A Nimbleness Of The Fancy, Not A Laborious Effort Of The Will; A License, A Holiday, A Carnival Of Thought And Feeling, Not A Trifling With Speech, A Constraint Upon Language, A Duress Upon Words.

Whether One Talks Well Depends Very Much Upon Whom He Has To Talk To.

There Are Ceremonious Bows That Repel One Like A Cudgel.