The King Who Makes War On His

Foppery Is Never Cured; It Is The Bad Stamina Of The Mind, Which, Like Those Of The Body, Are Never Rectified; Once A Coxcomb Always A Coxcomb.

Nay, Sir, Those Who Write In Them, Write Well, In Order To Be Paid Well.

It Was His Peculiar Happiness That He Scarcely Ever Found A Stranger Whom He Did Not Leave A Friend; But It Must Likewise Be Added, That He Had Not Often A Friend Long Without Obliging Him To Become A Stranger.

In Matters Of Business, No Woman Stops At Integrity.

Every Man Is, Or Hopes To Be, An Idler.