“Better to hunt in fields, for health unbought, Than fee the doctor for a nauseous draught, The wise, for cure, on exercise depend; God never made his work for man to mend.”

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.

O freedom, first delight of human kind!

What passion cannot music raise and quell!

He has not learned the first lesson of life who does not every day surmount a fear.

The winds are out of breath.

The secret pleasure of a generous act Is the great mind’s great bribe.