“But what is Hope? Nothing but the paint on the face of Existence; the least touch of truth rubs it off, and then we see what a hollow-cheeked harlot we have got hold of.”

Self praise is no praise at all.

I live, but live to die: and, living, see nothing to make death hateful, save an innate clinging, a loathsome and yet all invincible instinct of life, which I abhor, as I despise myself, yet cannot overcome – and so I live. Would I had never lived!

You gave me the key to your heart, my love, then why did you make me knock?

I have great hopes that we shall love each other all our lives as much as if we had never married at all.

Tyranny is for the worst of treasons.

A timid mind is apt to mistake every scratch for a mortal wound.

Roll on, deep and dark blue ocean, roll. Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain. Man marks the earth with ruin, but his control stops with the shore.

Let us have wine and women, mirth and laughter, sermons and soda water the day after.

Man is in part divine, A troubled stream from a pure source.

Who then will explain the explanation?

It is when we think we lead that we are most led.

Why do they call me misanthrope? Because They hate me, not I them.

Heaven gives its favourites-early death.

A mistress never is nor can be a friend. While you agree, you are lovers; and when it is over, anything but friends.

A thousand years may scare form a state. An hour may lay it in ruins.

What deep wounds ever closed without a scar?