Lo, what huge heaps of littleness around!
Never was it given to mortal man – To lie so boldly as we women can.
Slave to no sect, who takes no private road, But looks through Nature up to Nature’s God.
The same ambition can destroy or save, and make a patriot as it makes a knave.
The worst of madmen is a saint run mad.
Virtue she finds too painful an endeavour, content to dwell in decencies for ever.
Whoever thinks a faultless piece to see, Thinks what ne’er was, nor is, nor e’er shall be.
Pride is still aiming at the best houses: Men would be angels, angels would be gods. Aspiring to be gods, if angels fell; aspiring to be angels men rebel.
What Reason weaves, by Passion is undone.
Know then this truth, enough for man to know virtue alone is happiness below.
Gentle dullness ever loves a joke.
Behold the child, by Nature’s kindly law pleased with a rattle, tickled with a straw.
Some old men, continually praise the time of their youth. In fact, you would almost think that there were no fools in their days, but unluckily they themselves are left as an example.
Never find fault with the absent.
Order is heaven’s first law.
The hungry judges soon the sentence sign, and wretches hang that jurymen may dine.
At ev’ry word a reputation dies.
Extremes in nature equal ends produce; In man they join to some mysterious use.
Men would be angels, angels would be gods.
Remembrance and reflection how allied. What thin partitions divides sense from thought.