Our passions are like convulsion fits, which, though they make us stronger for a time, leave us the weaker ever after.
Blessed is the man who expects nothing, for he shall never be disappointed was the ninth beatitude.
Happy the man whose wish and care a few paternal acres bound, content to breathe his native air in his own ground.
A brain of feathers, and a heart of lead.
The worst of madmen is a saint run mad.
Never was it given to mortal man – To lie so boldly as we women can.
Hope travels through, nor quits us when we die.
Hope springs eternal in the human breast: Man never is, but always to be blest.
Like Cato, give his little senate laws, and sit attentive to his own applause.
To observations which ourselves we make, we grow more partial for th’ observer’s sake.