Bold knaves thrive without one grain of sense, But good men starve for want of impudence.
Beware the fury of a patient man.
We first make our habits, then our habits make us.
There is a pleasure sure in being mad which none but madmen know.
Great wits are to madness near allied And thin partitions do their bounds divide.
Better shun the bait, than struggle in the snare.
I am sore wounded but not slain I will lay me down and bleed a while And then rise up to fight again
Happy the man, and happy he alone, He who can call today his own: He who, secure within, can say, Tomorrow do thy worst, for I have lived today.
Errors, like straws, upon the surface flow; He who would search for pearls, must dive below.
Secret guilt is by silence revealed.
…So when the last and dreadful hour This crumbling pageant shall devour, The trumpet shall be heard on high, The dead shall live, the living die, And Music shall untune the sky
But far more numerous was the herd of such, Who think too little, and who talk too much.
It is easier to forgive an enemy than to forgive a friend.
I strongly wish for what I faintly hope; like the daydreams of melancholy men, I think and think in things impossible, yet love to wander in that golden maze.
Love is love's reward.
Look round the habitable world, how few Know their own good, or, knowing it, pursue!
Welcome, thou kind deceiver! Thou best of thieves: who, with an easy key, Dost open life, and, unperceived by us, Even steal us from ourselves.
Dancing is the poetry of the foot.
Great wits are sure to madness near allied, and thin partitions do their bounds divide.
Boldness is a mask for fear, however great.
Whatever is, is in its causes just; But purblind man Sees but a part o' th' chain; the nearest link; His eyes not carrying to that equal beam That poises all above.
Let Fortune empty her whole quiver on me, I have a soul that, like an ample shield, Can take in all, and verge enough for more; Fate was not mine, nor am I Fate's: Souls know no conquerors.
None but the brave deserves the fair.
Order is the greatest grace
For you may palm upon us new for old: All, as they say, that glitters, is not gold.
To die is landing on some distant shore.
Those who write ill, and they who ne'er durst write, Turn critics out of mere revenge and spite.
Night came, but unattended with repose. Alone she came, no sleep their eyes to close. Alone and black she came; no friendly stars arose.
Roused by the lash of his own stubborn tail, Our lion now will foreign foes assail.
Love is a passion which kindles honor into noble acts.
Where'e're I go, my Soul shall stay with thee: 'Tis but my Shadow I take away...
In God ’tis glory: And when men aspire, ’Tis but a spark too much of heavenly fire.
None are so busy as the fool and knave.
The winds that never moderation knew, Afraid to blow too much, too faintly blew; Or out of breath with joy, could not enlarge Their straighten'd lungs or conscious of their charge.
Rhyme is the rock on which thou art to wreck.
Must I at length the Sword of Justice draw? Oh curst Effects of necessary Law! How ill my Fear they by my Mercy scan, Beware the Fury of a Patient Man.
Death in itself is nothing; but we fear. To be we know not what, we know not where.
All things are subject to decay and when fate summons, monarchs must obey.
Whence but from heaven, could men unskilled in arts, In several ages born, in several parts, Weave such agreeing truths? Or how, or why, Should all conspire to cheat us with a lie?
If others in the same Glass better see 'Tis for Themselves they look, but not for me: For my Salvation must its Doom receive Not from what others, but what I believe.
For whatsoe'er their sufferings were before, That change they covet makes them suffer more. All other errors but disturb a state; But innovation is the blow of fate.
Dreams are but interludes, which fancy makes; When monarch reason sleeps, this mimic wakes.
Words are but pictures of our thoughts
