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Fowls, by winter forced, forsake the floods, and wing their hasty flight to happier lands.
Genius must be born, and never can be taught.
Give the devil his due.
God never made His work for man to mend.
Good Heaven, whose darling attribute we find is boundless grace, and mercy to mankind, abhors the cruel.
Good sense and good-nature are never separated, though the ignorant world has thought otherwise. Good-nature, by which I mean beneficence and candor, is the product of right reason.
- [Good Humor : Good Nature]
Great souls forgive not injuries till time has put their enemies within their power, that they may show forgiveness is their own.
Great wit to madness sure is near allied,
And thin partitions do their bounds divide.
Griefs assured are felt before they come.
Had covetous men, as the fable goes of Briareus, each of them one hundred hands, they would all of them be employed in grasping and gathering, and hardly one of them in giving or laying out, but all in receiving, and none in restoring; a thing in itself so monstrous that nothing in nature besides is like it, except it be death and the grave--the only things I know which are always carrying off the spoils of the world and never making restitution. For otherwise all the parts of the universe, as they borrow of one another, so they still pay what they borrow, and that by so just and well-balanced an equality that their payments always keep pace with their receipts.
Have I not managed my contrivance well
To try your love and make you doubt of mine?
Having mourned your sin, for outward Eden lost, find paradise within.
He has, I know not what
Of greatness in his looks, and of high fate
That almost awes me.
He lards with flourishes his long harangue.
He trudged along, unknowing what he sought, and whistled as he went, for want of a thought.
He who proposes to be an author should first be a student.
He who trusts a secret to his servant makes his own man his master.
He who would pry behind the scenes oft sees a counterfeit.
Her colour changed, her face was not the same,
And hollow groans from her deep spirit came;
Her hair stood up; convulsive rage possess'd
Her trembling limbs, and heaved her lab'ring breast.
Her eyes, her lips, her cheeks, her shape, her features, seem to be drawn by Love's own hand; by Love himself in love.
Her head was bare, but for her native ornament of hair, which in a simple knot was tied above--sweet negligence, unheeded bait of love!
Here, here it lies; a lump of lead by day;
And in my short distracted nightly slumbers,
The hag that rides my dreams.
Heroic poetry has ever been esteemed the greatest work of human nature.
Hide, for shame, Romans, your grandsires' images, that blush at their degenerate progeny!
His joy concealed, he sets himself to show;
On each side bowing popularly low:
His looks, his gestures, and his words he frames,
And with familiar ease repeats their names,
Thus formed by nature, furnished out with arts,
He glides unfelt into their secret hearts.
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