Custom hath made it in him a property of easiness.

Age cannot wither her, nor custom stale her infinite variety. Other women cloy the appetites they feed, but she makes hungry where most she satisfies.

Age cannot wither her, nor custom stale Her infinite variety, other women cloy

Custom is the plague of wise men and the idol of fools.

Custom is the principle magistrate of man's life.

We do everything by custom, even believe by it; our very axioms, let us boast of free-thinking as we may, are oftenest simply such beliefs as we have never heard questioned.