On every thorn, delightful wisdom grows, In every rill a sweet instruction flows.
Souls made of fire, and children of the sun, With whom revenge is virtue.
The clouds may drop down titles and estates, and wealth may seek us, but wisdom must be sought.
Man makes a death which Nature never made. And feels a thousand deaths in fearing one.
Thoughts shut up want air, And spoil, like bales unopen'd to the sun.
Friendship's the wine of life: but friendship new... is neither strong nor pure.