It Infuriates Me To Be Wrong When

There Is Something Inexpressibly Charming In Falling In Love And, Surely, The Whole Pleasure Lies In The Fact That Love Isn't Lasting.

The True Touchstone Of Wit Is The Impromptu.

One Can Be Well-bred And Write Bad Poetry

It Is Madness Beyond Compare To Try To Reform The World.

What! Would You Make No Distinction Between Hypocrisy And Devotion? Would You Give Them The Same Names, And Respect The Mask As You Do The Face? Would You Equate Artifice And Sincerity? Confound Appearance With Truth? Regard The Phantom As The Very Person? Value Counterfeit As Cash?