“The thought of being nothing after death is a burden insupportable to a virtuous man.”

Love reckons hours for months, and days for years; and every little absence is an age.

Those who write ill, and they who ne’er durst write, Turn critics out of mere revenge and spite.

I never saw any good that came of telling truth.

Much malice mingled with a little wit Perhaps may censure this mysterious writ.

If the faults of men in orders are only to be judged among themselves, they are all in some sort parties; for, since they say the honour of their order is concerned in every member of it, how can we be sure that they will be impartial judges?

When I consider life, it is all a cheat. Yet fooled with hope, people favor this deceit.

Since every man who lives is born to die, And none can boast sincere felicity, With equal mind, what happens, let us bear, Nor joy nor grieve too much for things beyond our care. Like pilgrims to the’ appointed place we tend; The world’s an inn, and death the journey’s end.

A man is to be cheated into passion, but to be reasoned into truth.

Our vows are heard betimes! and Heaven takes care To grant, before we can conclude the prayer: Preventing angels met it half the way, And sent us back to praise, who came to pray.

The trumpet’s loud clangor Excites us to arms.

Present joys are more to flesh and blood Than a dull prospect of a distant good.

Forgiveness to the injured does belong; but they ne’er pardon who have done wrong.

Trust reposed in noble natures obliges them the more.

Some of our philosophizing divines have too much exalted the faculties of our souls, when they have maintained that by their force mankind has been able to find out God.

Great wits are sure to madness near allied, and thin partitions do their bounds divide.

All heiresses are beautiful.