“No king nor nation one moment can retard the appointed hour.”

God never made his work for man to mend.

Luxurious kings are to their people lost, They live like drones, upon the public cost.

There’s a proud modesty in merit; averse from asking, and resolved to pay ten times the gifts it asks.

Dreams are but interludes that fancy makes… Sometimes forgotten things, long cast behind Rush forward in the brain, and come to mind.

Repentance is but want of power to sin.

The love of liberty with life is given, And life itself the inferior gift of Heaven.

Virtue in distress, and vice in triumph make atheists of mankind.

Nothing to build, and all things to destroy.

But how can finite grasp Infinity?

Boldness is a mask for fear, however great.

Beauty, like ice, our footing does betray; Who can tread sure on the smooth, slippery way: Pleased with the surface, we glide swiftly on, And see the dangers that we cannot shun.

Love is a passion Which kindles honor into noble acts.

Youth, beauty, graceful action seldom fail: But common interest always will prevail; And pity never ceases to be shown To him who makes the people’s wrongs his own.

Of all the tyrannies on human kind the worst is that which persecutes the mind.

Truth is never to be expected from authors whose understanding is warped with enthusiasm.

Bold knaves thrive without one grain of sense, But good men starve for want of impudence.

You shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you mad.

When I was 14, I wanted to smoke because my mother smoked like mad. I wanted to smoke to look grown-up. But my mother said: ‘You shouldn’t smoke. Your hands are not that beautiful and that shows when you smoke.

When a man mistakes his thoughts for persons and things, he is mad.

I am often mad, but I would hate to be nothing but mad: and I think I would lose what little value I may have as a writer if I were to refuse, as a matter of principle, to accept the warming rays of the sun, and to report them, whenever, and if ever, they

Even if you make mistakes, I go back to those things, my not-so-great moments because those are my truest moments; those are my human moments. I’m not even mad at the things I said that were a little dicey.

I sometimes think we must be all mad and that we shall wake to sanity in strait-waistcoats.

We’re all mad, the whole damned race. We’re wrapped in illusions, delusions, confusions about the penetrability of partitions, we’re all mad and in solitary confinement.

It’s true Fang and I fight, but we’ve never gone to bed mad. Of course, one year we were up for three months.