Who breaks a butterfly on a wheel?

How loved, how honored once, avails thee not, To whom related, or by whom begot A heap of dust alone remains of thee 'Tis all thou art, and all the proud shall be!

An excuse is worse and more terrible than a lie; for an excuse is a lie guarded.

The lamb thy riot dooms to bleed today, Had he thy reason, would he skip and play? Pleas'd to the last he crops the flow'ry food, And licks the hand just rais'd to shed his blood.

Art still followed where Rome's eagles flew.

The zeal of fools offends at any time.

'Tis not a lip, or eye, we beauty call, But the joint force and full result of all.