“Old age creeps on us where we think it night.”

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.

Merit challenges envy.

Sculptors are obliged to follow the manners of the painters, and to make many ample folds, which are unsufferable hardness, and more like a rock than a natural garment.

For secrets are edged tools, And must be kept from children and from fools.

Here lies my wife: here let her lie! Now she’s at rest, and so am I.

Among our crimes oblivion may be set.

Youth should watch joys and shoot them as they fly.

Love reckons hours for months, and days for years; and every little absence is an age.

Those who write ill, and they who ne’er durst write, Turn critics out of mere revenge and spite.

I never saw any good that came of telling truth.

Much malice mingled with a little wit Perhaps may censure this mysterious writ.

If the faults of men in orders are only to be judged among themselves, they are all in some sort parties; for, since they say the honour of their order is concerned in every member of it, how can we be sure that they will be impartial judges?

When I consider life, it is all a cheat. Yet fooled with hope, people favor this deceit.

Since every man who lives is born to die, And none can boast sincere felicity, With equal mind, what happens, let us bear, Nor joy nor grieve too much for things beyond our care. Like pilgrims to the’ appointed place we tend; The world’s an inn, and death the journey’s end.

A man is to be cheated into passion, but to be reasoned into truth.

Our vows are heard betimes! and Heaven takes care To grant, before we can conclude the prayer: Preventing angels met it half the way, And sent us back to praise, who came to pray.