Rhyme is the rock on which thou art to wreck.
Farewell, too little, and too lately known, Whom I began to think and call my own.
If we from wealth to poverty descend, Want gives to know the flatterer from the friend.
Fortune's unjust; she ruins oft the brave, and him who should be victor, makes the slave.
Death only this mysterious truth unfolds, The mighty soul how small a body holds.
Thou strong seducer, Opportunity!
He who trusts a secret to his servant makes his own man his master.
Discover the opinion of your enemies, which is commonly the truest; for they will give you no quarter, and allow nothing to complaisance.
He made all countries where he came his own.
Happy the man, and happy he alone, he, who can call today his own.
Like pilgrims to th' appointed place we tend; The World's an Inn, and Death the journey's end.
Fool, not to know that love endures no tie, And Jove but laughs at lovers' perjury.
Humility and resignation are our prime virtues.
Drinking is the soldier's pleasure.
Is it not evident, in these last hundred years (when the Study of Philosophy has been the business of all the Virtuosi in Christendome) that almost a new Nature has been revealed to us? that more errours of the School have been detected, more useful Experiments in Philosophy have been made, more Noble Secrets in Opticks, Medicine, Anatomy, Astronomy, discover'd, than in all those credulous and doting Ages from Aristotle to us? So true it is that nothing spreads more fast than Science, when rightly and generally cultivated.
The people's prayer, the glad diviner's theme, The young men's vision, and the old men's dream!
Not Heav'n itself upon the past has pow'r; But what has been, has been, and I have had my hour.
Men met each other with erected look, The steps were higher that they took; Friends to congratulate their friends made haste, And long inveterate foes saluted as they pass'd.
She, though in full-blown flower of glorious beauty, Grows cold even in the summer of her age.
Learn to write well, or not to write at all.
When the Sun sets, shadows, that shew'd at Noon But small, appear most long and terrible; So, when we think Fate hovers o'er our Heads, Our apprehensions shoot beyond all bounds, Owls, Ravens, Crickets seem the watch of death, Nature's worst Vermine scare her God-like Sons. Ecchoes the very leavings of a Voice, Grow babling Ghosts, and call us to our Graves: Each Mole-hill thought swells to a huge Olympus, While we fantastick Dreamers heave and puff, And sweat with an Imagination's weight.
Woman's honor is nice as ermine; it will not bear a soil.
Reason saw not, till Faith sprung the Light.
Democracy is essentially anti-authoritarian--that is, it not only demands the right but imposes the responsibility of thinking for ourselves.
Maintain your post: That's all the fame you need; For 'tis impossible you should proceed.
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