Shakespeare Is Not Our Poet, But The

The Wise Become As The Unwise In The Enchanted Chambers Of Power, Whose Lamps Make Every Face The Same Colour.

Cats Like Men Are Flatterers.

The Writing Of The Wise Are The Only Riches Our Posterity Cannot Squander.

Even The Weakest Disputant Is Made So Conceited By What He Calls Religion, As To Think Himself Wiser Than The Wisest Who Thinks Differently From Him.

There Is Only One Word Of Tenderness We Could Say, Which We Have Not Said Oftentimes Before ; And There Is No Consolation In It. The Happy Never Say, And Never Hear Said, Farewell.