Nor is the people's judgment always true: the most may err as grossly as the few.
A man is to be cheated into passion, but to be reasoned into truth.
Freedom which in no other land will thrive, Freedom an English subject's sole prerogative.
Doeg, though without knowing how or why, Made still a blundering kind of melody; Spurr'd boldly on, and dash'd through thick and thin, Through sense and nonsense, never out nor in; Free from all meaning whether good or bad, And in one word, heroically mad.
Love reckons hours for months, and days for years; and every little absence is an age.
None but the brave deserve the fair.
They, who would combat general authority with particular opinion, must first establish themselves a reputation of understanding better than other men.
Death in itself is nothing; but we fear to be we know not what, we know not where.
Every language is so full of its own proprieties that what is beautiful in one is often barbarous, nay, sometimes nonsense, in another.
What I have left is from my native spring; I've still a heart that swells, in scorn of fate, And lifts me to my banks.
Zeal, the blind conductor of the will.
Errors like straws upon the surface flow, Who would search for pearls to be grateful for often must dive below.
And love's the noblest frailty of the mind.
He look'd in years, yet in his years were seen A youthful vigor, and autumnal green.
Time and death shall depart and say in flying Love has found out a way to live, by dying.
Politicians neither love nor hate.
Let grace and goodness be the principal loadstone of thy affections.
When I consider life, it is all a cheat. Yet fooled with hope, people favor this deceit.
Since a true knowledge of nature gives us pleasure, a lively imitation of it, either in poetry or painting, must produce a much greater; for both these arts are not only true imitations of nature, but of the best nature.
Revenge, revenge, Timotheus cries, See the Furies arise!
Long pains, with use of bearing, are half eased.
Our souls sit close and silently within, And their own web from their own entrails spin; And when eyes meet far off, our sense is such, That, spider-like, we feel the tenderest touch.
For truth has such a face and such a mien, as to be loved needs only to be seen.
None would live past years again, Yet all hope pleasure in what yet remain; And, from the dregs of life, think to receive, What the first sprightly running could not give.
For those whom God to ruin has design'd, He fits for fate, and first destroys their mind.
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