“All good things must come to an end.”

The cat would eat fish but would not get her feet wet.

My house is small, but you are learned men And by your arguments can make a place Twenty foot broad as infinite as space.

But manly set the world on sixe and sevene; And, if thou die a martyr, go to heaven.

Filth and old age, I’m sure you will agree, are powerful wardens upon chastity.

Forbid us something, and that thing we desire.

And she was fair as is the rose in May.

But Christ’s lore and his apostles twelve, He taught and first he followed it himself.

Habit maketh no monk, ne wearing of gilt spurs maketh no knight.

For time lost may not recovered be.

One cannot be avenged for every wrong; according to the occasion, everyone who knows how, must use temperance.

Look up on high, and thank the God of all.

The guilty think all talk is of themselves.

A yokel mind loves stories from of old, Being the kind it can repeat and hold.

How potent is the fancy! People are so impressionable, they can die of imagination.

Yet do not miss the moral, my good men. For Saint Paul says that all that’s written well Is written down some useful truth to tell. Then take the wheat and let the chaff lie still.

Women naturally desire the same six things as I; they want their husbands to be brave, wise, rich, generous with money, obedient to the wife, and lively in bed.

I have tried this letting go part and ended up holding you closer then before. – everyday.

Ends are for yesterday, not tomorrows.

How many times have you reached an end of a story, only to find it was the turn of a page?

When you come to the end, that’s where God begins.

Domestic happiness is the end of almost all our pursuits, and the common reward of all our pains. When men find themselves forever barred from this delightful fruition, they are lost to all industry, and grow careless of all their worldly affairs. Thus they become bad subjects, bad relations, bad friends, and bad men.

I cannot start a story or chapter without knowing how it ends. Of course, it rarely ends that way.

Farewell, my old fan. / Having scribbled on it, / What could I do but tear it / At the end of summer?

My eyes close. I am here and not here. A waking nap? A flight to the end of the galaxy and perhaps a couple of billion light-years beyond?