That each from other differs, first confess; next that he varies from himself no less.

I find myself hoping a total end of all the unhappy divisions of mankind by party-spirit, which at best is but the madness of many for the gain of a few.

To be angry is to revenge the faults of others on ourselves.

Good God! how often are we to die before we go quite off this stage? In every friend we lose a part of ourselves, and the best part.

Pleased to the last, he crops the flowery food, And licks the hand just raised to shed his blood.

Love the offender, yet detest the offense.

Wise wretch! with pleasures too refined to please, With too much spirit to be e'er at ease, With too much quickness ever to be taught, With too much thinking to have common thought: You purchase pain with all that joy can give, And die of nothing but a rage to live.