What a brave privilege is it to be free from all contentions, from all envying or being envied, from receiving or paying all kinds of ceremonies!
To be a husbandman, is but a retreat from the city; to be a philosopher, from the world; or rather, a retreat from the world, as it is man's, into the world, as it is God's.
Lukewarmness I account a sin, as great in love as in religion.
The Sunflow'r, thinking 'twas for him foul shame To nap by daylight, strove t' excuse the blame; It was not sleep that made him nod, he said, But too great weight and largeness of his head.
Thus each extreme to equal danger tends, Plenty, as well as Want, can sep'rate friends.
But what is woman? Only one of nature's agreeable blunders.
As for being much known by sight, and pointed out, I cannot comprehend the honor that lies withal; whatsoever it be, every mountebank has it more than the best doctor.
There have been fewer friends on earth than kings.
The present is an eternal now.
"We may talk what we please," he cries in his enthusiasm for the oldest of the arts, "of lilies, and lions rampant, and spread eagles, in fields d'or or d'argent; but, if heraldry were guided by reason, a plough in a field arable would be the most noble and ancient arms."
This only grant me, that my means may lie, too low for envy, for contempt to high.
Acquaintance I would have, but when it depends; not on number, but the choice of friends.
There is some help for all the defects of fortune; for, if a man cannot attain to the length of his wishes, he may have his remedy by cutting of them shorter.
Who lets slip fortune, her shall never find: Occasion once past by, is bald behind.
Life for delays and doubts no time does give, None ever yet made haste enough to live.
It is a hard and nice subject for a man to speak of himself: it grates his own heart to say anything of disparagement, and the reader's ear to hear anything of praise from him.
What shall I do to be for ever known, And make the age to come my own?
Curs'd be that wretch (Death's factor sure) who brought Dire swords into the peaceful world, and taught Smiths (who before could only make The spade, the plough-share, and the rake) Arts, in most cruel wise Man's left to epitomize!
The present is all the ready money Fate can give.
All the world's bravery that delights our eyes is but thy several liveries.
Ah! Wretched and too solitary he who loves not his own company.
The monster London laugh at me.
Happy insect! what can be In happiness compared to thee? Fed with nourishment divine, The dewy morning's gentle wine! Nature waits upon thee still, And thy verdant cup does fill; 'Tis fill'd wherever thou dost tread, Nature's self's thy Ganymede.
Awake, awake, my Lyre!And tell thy silent master's humble taleIn sounds that may prevail;Sounds that gentle thoughts inspire:Though so exalted sheAnd I so lowly beTell her, such different notes make all thy harmony.
Much will always wanting be To him who much desires.
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