Words are things, and a small drop of ink, falling like dew, upon a thought, produces that which makes thousands, perhaps millions, think.
Wives in their husbands’ absences grow subtler, and daughters sometimes run off with the butler.
Who loves, raves.
What a strange thing is man! and what a stranger is woman!
Truth is always strange; stranger than fiction; if it could be told, how much would novels gain by the exchange! How differently the world would men behold!
Though sages may pour out their wisdom’s treasure, there is no sterner moralist than Pleasure.
This is the patent-age of new inventions for killing bodies, and for saving souls, all propagated with the best intentions.
There’s naught, no doubt, so much the spirit calms as rum and true religion.
There is no instinct like the heart.
Society is now one polished horde, formed of two mighty tribes, the Bores and Bored.
Romances I ne’er read like those I have seen.
Roll on, thou deep and dark blue ocean – roll! Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain; man marks the earth with ruin – his control stops with the shore.
