For truth has such a face and such a mien, as to be loved needs only to be seen.
What passion cannot music raise and quell!
Old as I am, for ladies' love unfit, The power of beauty I remember yet.
If by the people you understand the multitude, the hoi polloi, 'tis no matter what they think; they are sometimes in the right, sometimes in the wrong; their judgment is a mere lottery.
Ill habits gather unseen degrees, as brooks make rivers, rivers run to seas.
Secret guilt is by silence revealed.