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Ambition is a lust that is never quenched, but grows more inflamed and madder by enjoyment.
Avoid the politic, the factious fool,
The busy, buzzing, talking harden'd knave;
The quaint smooth rogue that sins against his reason,
Calls saucy loud sedition public zeal,
And mutiny the dictates of his spirit.
Base natures ever judge a thing above them, and hate a power they are too much obliged to.
Children blessings seem, but torments are.
Clocks will go as they are set; but man, irregular man, is never constant, never certain.
Could my griefs speak, the tale would have no end.
Cowards are scared with threatenings; boys are whipped into confession; but a steady mind acts of itself, ne'er asks the body counsel.
Dame Fortune, like most others of the female sex, is generally most indulgent to the nimble-mettled blockheads.
False as the adulterate promises of favorites in power when poor men court them.
Fine speeches are the instruments of fools or knaves, who use them when they want good sense; but honesty needs no disguise or ornament.
Greatness, thou gaudy torment of out souls,
The wise man's fetter, and the rage of fools.
Honesty needs no disguise nor ornament; be plain.
How many men
Have spent their blood in their dear country's service,
Yet now pine under want; while selfish slaves,
That even would cut their throats whom now they fawn on,
Like deadly locusts, eat the honey up,
Which those industrious bees so hardly toil'd for.
I know not how to tell thee! Shame rises in my face, and interrupts the story of my tongue!
Indeed, you thanked me; but a nobler gratitude rose in her soul, for from that hour she loved me.
Justice is lame as well as blind, amongst us.
Like conquering tyrants you our breasts invade,
Where you are pleas'd to ravage for awhile;
But soon you find new conquests out and leave
The ravag'd province ruinate and bare.
Love reigns a very tyrant in my heart.
My eyes won't lose the sight of thee,
But languish after thine, and ache with gazing.
No flatt'ry, boy! an honest man can't live by't;
It is a little sneaking art, which knaves
Use to cajole and soften fools withal.
If thou hast flatt'ry in thy nature, out with't;
Or send it to a court, for there 'twill thrive.
No flattery, boy! an honest man cannot live by it; it is a little, sneaking art, which knaves use to cajole and soften fools withal.
Revenge, the attribute of gods! they stamped it with their great image on our natures.
She who has beauty might ensnare a conqueror's soul, and make him leave his crown at random, to be scuffed for by slaves.
The pain is in my head; 'tis is in my heart;
'Tis everywhere; it rages like a madness,
And I most wonder how my reason holds.
The queen of night shines fair with all her virgin stars about her.
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