The Laughers Are A Majority.

And Die Of Nothing But A Rage To Live.

Vices And Virtues Are Of A Strange Nature, For The More We Have, The Fewer We Think We Have.

In This Commonplace World Every One Is Said To Be Romantic Who Either Admires A Fine Thing Or Does One.

Men Would Be Angels, Angels Would Be Gods.

Praise Is Like Ambergrease: A Little Whiff Of It, And By Snatches, Is Very Agreeable; But When A Man Holds A Whole Lump Of It To Your Nose, It Is A Stink, And Strikes You Down.