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A man in authority is but as a candle in the wind, sooner wasted or blown out than under a bushel.
Absence is all love's crime.
Banish all compliments but single truth,
From every tongue, and every shepherd's heart,
Let them use still persuading, but no art.
Care seeks out wrinkled brows and hollow eyes, and builds himself caves to abide in them.
Charity ever finds in the act reward, and needs no trumpet in the receiver.
Death comes but once.
Death rides in triumph,--fell destruction
Lashes his fiery horse, and round about him
His many thousand ways to let out souls.
Discretion, the best part of valor.
Do not cherish that daring vice for which the whole age suffers--these private duels--which had their first original from the French and for which to this day we're justly censured, are banished from all civil government.
Equality is no rule in Love's grammar.
He that intends well, yet deprives himself
Of means to put his good thoughts into deed,
Deceives his purpose of the due reward.
He went away with a flea in 's ear.
His travel has not stopp'd him
As you suppose, nor alter'd any freedom,
But made him far more clear and excellent:
It drains the grossness of the understanding,
And renders active and industrious spirits:
He that knows men's manners, must of necessity
Best know his own, and mend those by examples:
'T is a dull thing to travel like a mill-horse,
Still in the place he was born in, round and blinded.
Honest minds are pleased with honest things.
I look down upon him
With such contempt and scorn, as on my slave;
He's a name only, and all good in him
He must derive from his great grandsire's ashes,
For had not their victorious acts bequeathed
His titles to him, and wrote on his forehead,
"This is a lord," he had lived unobserved
By any man of mark and died as one
Amongst the common rout.
Is there no constancy in earthy things?
No happiness in us, but what must alter?
No life, without the heavy load of fortune?
What miseries we are, and to ourselves?
Ev'n then when full content seems to sit by us,
What daily sores and sorrows.
It is godlike to have power, but not to kill.
It is the crown of justice, and the glory, where it may kill with right, to save with pity.
Nothing is a misery,
Unless our weakness apprehend it so:
We cannot be more faithful to ourselves,
In anything that's manly, than to make
Ill-fortune as contemptible to us
As it makes us to others.
Our natures are like oil; compound us with anything,
Yet will we strive to swim to the top.
Set hills on hills betwixt me and the man
That utters this, and I will scale them all;
And from the utmost top fall on his neck,
Like thunder from a cloud.
Struck blind with beauty! shot with a woman's smile.
The greatest attribute of Heaven is mercy.
The wanton lawns, more soft and white than milk.
There is a method in man's wickedness:
It grows up by degrees.
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