Nothing can confound a wise man more than laughter from a dunce.
Men are the sport of circumstances, when the circumstances seem the sport of men.
Man’s love is of man’s life a thing apart, ‘T is woman’s whole existence.
Man, being reasonable, must get drunk; the best of life is but intoxication.
Let none think to fly the danger, for soon or late Love is his own avenger.
In her first passion woman loves her lover, in all the others all she loves is love.
I should be very willing to redress men’s wrongs, and rather check than punish crimes, had not Cervantes, in that too true tale of Quixote, shown how all such efforts fail.
Hatred is by far the longest pleasure; men love in haste, but they detest at leisure.
Death, so called, is a thing which makes men weep, and yet a third of life is passed in sleep.
Cervantes smiled Spain’s chivalry away; a single laugh demolish’d the right arm of his own country.
Between two worlds life hovers like a star, ‘twixt night and morn, upon the horizon’s verge.
And Coleridge, too, has lately taken wing, but like a hawk encumber’d with his hood, explaining metaphysics to the nation I wish he would explain his Explanation.
