“You purchase pain with all that joy can give and die of nothing but a rage to live.”

Who dare to love their country, and be poor.

Vice is a monster of so frightful mien As to be hated needs but to be seen; Yet seen too oft, familiar with her face, We first endure, then pity, then embrace.

What is it to be wise? ‘Tis but to know how little can be known, To see all others’ faults, and feel our own.

Praise from a friend, or censure from a foe, Are lost on hearers that our merits know.

The greatest magnifying glasses in the world are a man’s own eyes when they look upon his own person.

An excuse is worse and more terrible than a lie; for an excuse is a lie guarded.

Beauty draws us with a single hair.

Passions are the gales of life.

We may see the small value God has for riches, by the people he gives them to.

To swear is neither brave, polite, nor wise.

Words are like Leaves; and where they most abound, Much Fruit of Sense beneath is rarely found.

As with narrow-necked bottles; the less they have in them, the more noise they make in pouring out.

There is but one way I know of conversing safely with all men; that is, not by concealing what we say or do, but by saying or doing nothing that deserves to be concealed.

And seem to walk on wings, and tread in air.

True ease in writing comes from art, not chance, As those move easiest who have learned to dance.

Women use lovers as they do cards; they play with them a while, and when they have got all they can by them, throw them away, call for new ones, and then perhaps lose by the new all they got by the old ones.

Love is life, if it is not death.

You do not immortalize the lost by writing about them. Language buries, but does not resurrect.

Every man’s last day is fixed. Lifetimes are brief, and not to be regained, for all mankind. But by their deeds to make their fame last: that is labor for the brave.

Your mind is your predicament. It wants to be free of change. Free of pain, free of the obligations of life and death. But change is law and no amount of pretending will alter that reality.

In an artist’s life, death is perhaps not the most difficult thing.

You do not immortalize the lost by writing about them. Language buries, but does not resurrect.

Every man’s last day is fixed. Lifetimes are brief, and not to be regained, for all mankind. But by their deeds to make their fame last: that is labor for the brave.

Your mind is your predicament. It wants to be free of change. Free of pain, free of the obligations of life and death. But change is law and no amount of pretending will alter that reality.