Tea! thou soft, sober, sage and venerable liquid;- thou female tongue-running, smile-smoothing, heart-opening, wink-tippling cordial, to whose glorious insipidity I owe the happiest moment of my life, let me fall prostrate.
Prithee don't screw your wit beyond the compass of good manners.
The happy have whole days, and those they choose. The unhappy have but hours, and those they lose.
Stolen sweets are best.
Oh! How many torments lie in the small circle of a wedding ring.
Old houses mended, Cost little less than new before they're ended.
Wit is the most rascally, contemptible, beggarly thing on the face of the earth.
Who fears t' offend takes the first step to please.
Faint is the bliss, that never past thro' pain.
The aspiring youth that fired the Ephesian domeOutlives in fame the pious fool that rais'd it.
The wretch that fears to drown, will break through flames;
Or, in his dread of flames, will plunge in waves.
When eagles are in view, the screaming doves
Will cower beneath the feet of man for safety.
Words are but empty thanks.
When we are conscious of the least comparative merit in ourselves, we should take as much care to conceal the value we set upon it, as if it were a real defect; to be elated or vain upon it is showing your money before people in want.
I've lately had two spiders Crawling upon my startled hopes-- Now though thy friendly hand has brushed 'em from me, Yet still they crawl offensive to mine eyes: I would have some kind friend to tread upon 'em.
Losers must have leave to speak.
Then let not what I cannot have
My cheer of mind destroy.
Whilst thus I sing, I am a king,
Although a poor blind boy!
What have I done? What horrid crime committed?
To me the worst of crimes-outliv'd my liking.
You know, one had as good be out of the world, as out of the fashion.
We shall find no fiend in hell can match the fury of a disappointed woman; scorned, slighted, dismissed without a parting pang.
The happy have whole days.
A weak invention of the Enemy.
Possession is eleven points in the law.
Banish that fear; my flame can never waste,
For love sincere refines upon the taste.
So mourn'd the dame of Ephesus her love.
Oh, say! what is that thing call'd light, Which I must ne'er enjoy? What are the blessings of the sight? Oh, tell your poor blind boy!
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