“Our souls sit close and silently within, And their own web from their own entrails spin; And when eyes meet far off, our sense is such, That, spider-like, we feel the tenderest touch.”

Beauty, like ice, our footing does betray; Who can tread sure on the smooth, slippery way: Pleased with the surface, we glide swiftly on, And see the dangers that we cannot shun.

Love is a passion Which kindles honor into noble acts.

Youth, beauty, graceful action seldom fail: But common interest always will prevail; And pity never ceases to be shown To him who makes the people’s wrongs his own.

Of all the tyrannies on human kind the worst is that which persecutes the mind.

Truth is never to be expected from authors whose understanding is warped with enthusiasm.

Bold knaves thrive without one grain of sense, But good men starve for want of impudence.

Repartee is the soul of conversation.

Beware of the fury of the patient man.

Treason is greatest where trust is greatest.

Death in itself is nothing; but we fear to be we know not what, we know not where.

Silence in times of suffering is the best.

Anger will never disappear so long as thoughts of resentment are cherished in the mind. Anger will disappear just as soon as thoughts of resentment are forgotten.

War is the trade of kings.

Satire is a kind of poetry in which human vices are reprehended.

Ill habits gather unseen degrees, as brooks make rivers, rivers run to seas.

Kings fight for empires, madmen for applause.