Sense is our helmet, wit is but the plume; The plume exposes, 'tis our helmet saves. Sense is the diamond, weighty, solid, sound; When cut by wit, it casts a brighter beam; Yet, wit apart, it is a diamond still.
And all may do what has by man been done.
What ardently we wish, we soon believe.
A tardy vengeance shares the tyrant's guilt.
By all means use some time to be alone.
All men think that all men are mortal but themselves.