“For what I have publish’d, I can only hope to be pardon’d; but for what I have burned, I deserve to be prais’d.”

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.

Sisters come before carpet burns and blisters.

A Jack Russell terrier? My god. He’ll burn you up. They never stop. A German shepherd, you can only go so many miles.

Anybody that I ever dealt with knows that I’m a very focused individual, and when it comes to my work and what I do, you might have to play the back burner to that.

Not all homes are meant to be lived in. Some are meant to be abandoned. Some burnt.

She does not play with fire anymore, Her soul got burnt and hurt many times.

Burnt mirror, smeared glass. Do you like what you see? If my body is a temple, then my poetry is the darkest vestry. My mouth is a chalice, and these words are sacramental.

I think I’ll always remember your birthday and the way you took your coffee because they’ll forever be pieces of you I cannot burn.

We all show our true colors eventually – mine is dark and firesome red. I bet I burned you. I don’t expect to see you soon.