Too Great Haste Leads Us To Error.

Gold Gives To The Ugliest Thing A Certain Charming Air, For That Without It Were Else A Miserable Affair.

You Are My Peace, My Solace, My Salvation.

My Heavens! I've Been Talking Prose For The Last Forty Years Without Knowing It.

Anyone May Be An Honorable Man, And Yet Write Verse Badly.

In Clothes As Well As Speech, The Man Of Sense Will Shun All These Extremes That Give Offense, Dress Unaffectedly, And, Without Haste, Follow The Changes In The Current Taste.