But 'why then publish?' There are no rewards Of fame or profit when the world grows weary. I ask in turn why do you play at cards? Why drink? Why read? To make some hour less dreary. It occupies me to turn back regards On what I've seen or pondered, sad or cheery, And what I write I cast upon the stream To swim or sink. I have had at least my dream.

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The dew of compassion is a tear.

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The premises are so delightfully extensive, that two people might live together without ever seeing, hearing or meeting.

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Life is too short for chess.

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When people say, "I've told you fifty times," They mean to scold, and very often do; When poets say, "I've written fifty rhymes," They make you dread that they'll recite them too; In gangs of fifty, thieves commit their crimes; At fifty love for love is rare, 't is true, but then, no doubt, it equally as true is, a good deal may be bought for fifty Louis.

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For truth is always strange; stranger than fiction.

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Sorrow is knowledge, those that know the most must mourn the deepest, the tree of knowledge is not the tree of life.

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I am acquainted with no immaterial sensuality so delightful as good acting.

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The heart will break, but broken live on.

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I only go out to get me a fresh appetite for being alone.

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