I should be very willing to redress men wrongs, and rather check than punish crimes, had not Cervantes, in that all too true tale of Quixote, shown how all such efforts fail.
Men love in haste, but they detest at leisure.
Oh, nature's noblest gift, my grey goose quill, Slave of my thoughts, obedient to my will, Torn from the parent bird to form a pen, That mighty instrument of little men.
Never to talk to ones self is a form of hypocrisy
The keenest pangs the wretched find Are rapture to the dreary void, The leafless desert of the mind, The waste of feelings unemployed.
Man is born passionate of body, but with an innate though secret tendency to the love of Good in his main-spring of Mind. But God help us all! It is at present a sad jar of atoms.
Sweet is old wine in bottles, ale in barrels.
I am about to be married, and am of course in all the misery of a man in pursuit of happiness.
But as to women, who can penetrate the real sufferings of their she condition? Man's very sympathy with their estate has much of selfishness and more suspicion. Their love, their virtue, beauty, education, but form good housekeepers, to breed a nation.
Of all the horrid, hideous notes of woe, Sadder than owl-songs or the midnight blast; Is that portentous phrase, "I told you so.
Romances paint at full length people's wooing. But only give a bust of marriages.
The bright sun was extinguish'd, and the stars Did wander darkling in the eternal space.
Self-love for ever creeps out, like a snake, to sting anything which happens to stumble upon it.
And if I laugh at any mortal thing, 'Tis that I may not weep.
A sort of hostile transaction, very necessary to keep the world going, but by no means a sinecure to the parties concerned.
Talent may be in time forgiven, but genius never
That famish'd people must be slowly nurst, and fed by spoonfuls, else they always burst.
Like to the apples on the Dead Sea's shore, All ashes to the taste.
The fact is that my wife if she had common sense would have more power over me than any other whatsoever, for my heart always alights upon the nearest perch.
There's naught, no doubt, so much the spirit calms as rum and true religion.
Tis strange,-but true; for truth is always strange; Stranger than fiction: if it could be told, How much would novels gain by the exchange! How differently the world would men behold!
I live not in myself, but I become Portion of that around me: and to me High mountains are a feeling, but the hum of human cities torture.
Tis not on youth's smooth cheek the blush alone, which fades so fast, But the tender bloom of heart is gone, ere youth itself be past.
I depart, Whither I know not; but the hour's gone by When Albion's lessening shores could grieve or glad mine eye.
But I hate things all fiction... there should always be some foundation of fact for the most airy fabric - and pure invention is but the talent of a liar.
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