Nothing can confound a wise man more than laughter from a dunce.
But words are things, and a small drop of ink, Falling like dew, upon a thought, produces That which makes thousands, perhaps millions, think.
Why I came here, I know not; where I shall go it is useless to inquire – in the midst of myriads of the living and the dead worlds, stars, systems, infinity, why should I be anxious about an atom?
Cervantes smiled Spain’s chivalry away; A single laugh demolished the right arm Of his country.
It is very certain that the desire of life prolongs it.
For in itself a thought, a slumbering thought, is capable of years, and curdles a long life into one hour.
Where there is mystery, it is generally suspected there must also be evil.
Though sages may pour out their wisdom’s treasure, there is no sterner moralist than pleasure.
The busy have no time for tears.
There’s naught, no doubt, so much the spirit calms as rum and true religion.