We Prize Books, And They Prize Them

In Vain Produced, All Rays Return; Evil Will Bless, And Ice Will Burn.

It Is Always So Pleasant To Be Generous, Though Very Vexatious To Pay Debts.

Let No One Honour Me With Tears, Or Bury Me With Lamentation. Why? Because I Fly Hither And Thither, Living In The Mouths Of Me.

The Moment We Indulge Our Affections, The Earth Is Metamorphosed.

I Take This Evanescence And Lubricity Of All Objects, Which Lets Them Slip Through Our Fingers Then When We Clutch Hardest, To Be The Most Unhandsome Part Of Our Condition.