Those who would make us feel must feel themselves.
Greatly his foes he dreads, but more his friends; He hurts me most who lavishly commends.
Quick-circulating slanders mirth afford; and reputation bleeds in every word.
When fiction rises pleasing to the eye, men will believe, because they love the lie; but truth herself, if clouded with a frown, must have some solemn proof to pass her down.
Patience is sorrow's salve.
By different methods different men excel, but where is he who can do all things well?