Clocks will go as they are set, but man, irregular man, is never constant, never certain.

Shining through tears, like April suns in showers, that labour to overcome the cloud that loads ’em.

No praying, it spoils business.

Ambition is a lust that is never quenched, but grows more inflamed and madder by enjoyment.

Honest men are the soft easy cushions on which knaves repose and fatten.

Justice is lame as well as blind, amongst us.

Clocks will go as they are set, but man, irregular man, is never constant, never certain.

Let us embrace, and from this very moment vow an eternal misery together.