There Is Not A Single Heart But

Poverty Is Very Good In Poems But Very Bad In The House; Very Good In Maxims And Sermons But Very Bad In Practical Life.

In The Sacred Precinct Of That Dwelling Where The Despotic Woman Wields The Sceptre Of Fierce Neatness, One Treads As If He Carried His Life In His Hands.

Some People Are Proud Of Their Humility.

Nature Is A Vast Repository Of Manly Enjoyments.

The Head Learns New Things, But The Heart Forever Practices Old Experiences.