“Virtue is her own reward.”

All, as they say, that glitters is not gold.

The conscience of a people is their power.

Beware the fury of a patient man.

A woman’s counsel brought us first to woe, And made her man his paradise forego, Where at heart’s ease he liv’d; and might have been As free from sorrow as he was from sin.

We can never be grieved for their miseries who are thoroughly wicked, and have thereby justly called their calamities on themselves.

Great souls forgive not injuries till time has put their enemies within their power, that they may show forgiveness is their own.

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.

Pity melts the mind to love.

They think too little who talk too much.

Revenge, revenge, Timotheus cries, See the Furies arise!

Every age has a kind of universal genius, which inclines those that live in it to some particular studies.

Men’s virtues I have commended as freely as I have taxed their crimes.

And love’s the noblest frailty of the mind.

At home the hateful names of parties cease, And factious souls are wearied into peace.

Light sufferings give us leisure to complain.

Time and death shall depart and say in flying Love has found out a way to live, by dying.