Content with poverty, my soul I arm; And virtue, though in rags, will keep me warm.
Blown roses hold their sweetness to the last.
God never made his work for man to mend.
Of no distemper, of no blast he died, But fell like autumn fruit that mellow'd long: Even wonder'd at, because he dropp'd no sooner. Fate seem'd to wind him up for fourscore years; Yet freshly ran he on ten winters more; Till like a clock worn out with eating time, The wheels of weary life at last stood still.
All things are subject to decay and when fate summons, monarchs must obey.
All delays are dangerous in war.
Youth should watch joys and shoot them as they fly.
The bravest men are subject most to chance.
I saw myself the lambent easy light Gild the brown horror, and dispel the night.
Pride - Lord of human kind
Much malice mingled with a little wit Perhaps may censure this mysterious writ.
So the false spider, when her nets are spread, deep ambushed in her silent den does lie.
Sure there is none but fears a future state; And when the most obdurate swear they do not, Their trembling hearts belie their boasting tongues.
Murder may pass unpunishd for a time, But tardy justice will oertake the crime.
Men's virtues I have commended as freely as I have taxed their crimes.
He is a perpetual fountain of good sense.
Satire is a kind of poetry in which human vices are reprehended.
The end of satire is the amendment of vices by correction; and he who writes honestly is no more an enemy to the offender than the physician to the patient when he prescribes harsh remedies.
Fattened in vice, so callous and so gross, he sins and sees not, senseless of his loss.
These are the effects of doting age,--vain doubts and idle cares and over caution.
Whatever is, is in its causes just.
Roused by the lash of his own stubborn tail our lion now will foreign foes assail.
A knock-down argument; 'tis but a word and a blow.
For lawful power is still superior found, When long driven back, at length it stands the ground.
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.
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