Learning Is Its Own Exceeding Great Reward;

A Man Knows His Companion In A Long Journey And A Little Inn.

I Do Not Think There Is Anything Deserving The Name Of Society To Be Found Out Of London.

The Pleasure Of Hating, Like A Poisonous Mineral, Eats Into The Heart Of Religion, And Turns It To Ranking Spleen And Bigotry; It Makes Patriotism An Excuse For Carrying Fire, Pestilence, And Famine Into Other Lands: It Leaves To Virtue Nothing But The Spirit Of Censoriousness.

Man Is A Make-believe Animal: He Is Never So Truly Himself As When He Is Acting A Part.

There Is A Softness And A Harmony In The Words And In The Thought Unparalleled. Of All Conceits It Is Surely The Most Classical. "i Count Only The Hours That Are Serene.".