The deepest rivers make least din, The silent soule doth most abound in care.

No town can keep a man, but men keep towns.

While as he yet doth breath extend, no man is blest; behold the end.

Not beauty, no, but virtue rais'd my fires, whose sacred flame did cherish chaste desires.

How some dare scorn (as if a fabulous lie) that they should rise whom death to dust doth bind -- and like to beasts, a beastly life they lead, who naught attend save death when they are dead.

Great conquests trouble, where contempt may please -- the one yields glory, and the other ease.

For me, every book is an individual with its own identity and has to be nurtured and taken care of, so that it may survive for a longer period.

You always thought older people were wiser. It's not that. It's just that our relatives are dead and we're able to speak freely.

Politics is the art of the possible.

Someone has to pick up the tab when people get out of repaying their own debts.

This head has risen above its hair in a moment of abandon known only to men who have drawn their feet out of their boots to walk awhile in the corridors of the mind.

Time waste differs from material waste in that there can be no salvage.

I'm always surprised to hear or read my work described, "In angry tones, she says." No! In truthful tones! Does truth have a tone? I don't know.

Those who hate you don't win unless you hate them back.

It is a shame for a man to desire honor because of his noble progenitors, and not to deserve it by his own virtue.

If this were played upon a stage now, I could condemn it as an improbable fiction.