Heaven wills our happiness, allows our doom.
Who knows if Shakespeare might not have thought less if he had read more?
Insatiate archer! could not one suffice? Thy shaft flew thrice, and thrice my peace was slain; And thrice, ere thrice yon moon had filled her horn.
What most we wish, with ease we fancy near.
Inhumanity is caught from man, From smiling man.
Read nature; nature is a friend to truth.