Where There Is No Novelty, There Can

That Perfect Tranquillity Of Life, Which Is Nowhere To Be Found But In Retreat, A Faithful Friend And A Good Library.

A Poet Is A Painter In His Way, He Draws To The Life, But In Another Kind; We Draw The Nobler Part, The Soul And The Mind; The Pictures Of The Pen Shall Outlast Those Of The Pencil, And Even Worlds Themselves.

Women In London Are Like The Rich Silks; They Are Out Of Fashion A Great While Before They Wear Out.

Nothing Is More Capable Of Troubling Our Reason, And Consuming Our Health, Than Secret Notions Of Jealousy In Solitude.

A Brave World, Sir, Full Of Religion, Knavery, And Change: We Shall Shortly See Better Days.