Death in itself is nothing; but we fear to be we know not what, we know not where.
Plots, true or false, are necessary things, To raise up commonwealths and ruin kings.
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?
Only man clogs his happiness with care, destroying what is with thoughts of what may be.
Words are but pictures of our thoughts.
Love is not in our choice but in our fate.
He who would search for pearls must dive below.
None but the brave deserve the fair.
Politicians neither love nor hate.
Mighty things from small beginnings grow.
Kings fight for empires, madmen for applause.
Fool that I was, upon my eagle’s wings I bore this wren, till I was tired with soaring, and now he mounts above me.
Let Fortune empty her whole quiver on me, I have a soul that, like an ample shield, Can take in all, and verge enough for more; Fate was not mine, nor am I Fate’s: Souls know no conquerors.
Love is love’s reward.
What passion cannot music raise and quell!
War is the trade of kings.
The Fates but only spin the coarser clue; The finest of the wool is left for you.
Criticism is now become mere hangman’s work, and meddles only with the faults of authors ; nay, the critic is disgusted less with their absurdities than excellence ; and you cannot displease him more than in leaving him little room for his malice.
As when the dove returning bore the mark Of earth restored to the long labouring ark; The relics of mankind, secure at rest, Oped every window to receive the guest, And the fair bearer of the message bless’d.
Virgil is so exact in every word, that none can be changed but for a worse; nor any one removed from its place, but the harmony will be altered. He pretends sometimes to trip; but it is only to make you think him in danger of a fall, when he is most secure.