Deceit is the false road to happiness; and all the joys we travel through to vice, like fairy banquets, vanish when we touch them.
Tender-handed stroke a nettle,
And it stings you for your pains;
Grasp it like a man of mettle,
And it soft as silk remains. 'Tis the same with common natures:
Use 'em kindly, they rebel;
But be rough as nutmeg-graters,
And the rogues obey you well.
Union of hearts, not hands, does a marriage make, and sympathy of mind keeps love awake.
Birth is a shadow. Courage, self-sustained, outlords succession's phlegm, and needs no ancestors.
Let never man be bold enough to say,
Thus, and no farther shall my passion stray:
The first crime, past, compels us into more,
And guilt grows fate, that was but choice, before.
She who means no mischief does it all.
Mischief and malice grow on the same branch of the tree of evil.
Shun fear, it is the ague of the soul! a passion man created for himself--for sure that cramp of nature could not dwell in the warm realms of glory.
Servile doubt argues an impotence of mind, that says we fear because we dare not meet misfortunes.
Man is the circled oak; woman the ivy.
Trust me--with women worth the being won,
The softest lover ever best succeeds.
There is no merit where there is no trial; and till experience stamps the mark of strength, cowards may pass for heroes, and faith for falsehood.
Art, however innocent, looks like deceiving.
Joys, which we do not know, we do not wish.
The man who pauses on the paths of treason, Halts on a quicksand, the first step engulfs him.
Reason gains all people by compelling none.
Courage is poorly housed that dwells in numbers; the lion never counts the herd that are about him, nor weighs how many flocks he has to scatter.
Customs form us all, our thoughts, our morals, our most fixed beliefs; are consequences of our place of birth.
Oh, treacherous night thou lendest thy ready veil to every treason, and teeming mischief's beneath thy shade.
Youth is ever apt to judge in haste, and lose the medium in the wild extreme.
O marriage! marriage! what a curse is thine, Where hands alone consent and hearts abhor.
When Christ at Cana's feast by pow'r divine, Inspir'd cold water, with the warmth of wine, See! cry'd they while, in red'ning tide, it gush'd, The bashful stream hath seen its God and blush'd.
Letters, from absent friends, extinguish fear, Unite division, and draw distance near; Their magic force each silent wish conveys, And wafts embodied though, a thousand ways: Could souls to bodies write, death's pow'r were mean, For minds could then meet minds with heav'n between.
First, then, a woman will, or won't, - depend on't; If she will do't, she will; and there's an end on't. But, if she won't, since safe and sound your trust is, Fear is affront: and jealousy injustice.
Shame on those breasts of stone that cannot melt in soft adoption of another's sorrow.
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