Tale-bearers Are As Bad As The Tale-makers.

I Ne'er Could Any Lustre See In Eyes That Would Not Look On Me; I Ne'er Saw Nectar On A Lip But Where My Own Did Hope To Sip.

Wine Does But Draw Forth A Man's Natural Qualities.

The Heart That Is Conscious Of Its Own Integrity Is Ever Slow To Credit Another´s Treachery.

Illiterate Him, I Say, Quite From Your Memory.

To Smile At The Jest Which Plants A Thorn In Another's Breast Is To Become A Principal In The Mischief.