All Men Are Alike In

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.

The Trouble With Men Of Sense Is That They Are So Dreadfully In Earnest All The While.

Adhesion To One Idea Is Monomania; To Few, Slavery.

Hope Is The Best Part Of Our Riches.

Affliction, Like The Iron-smith, Shapes As It Smites.