None think the great unhappy, but the great.
Souls made of fire, and children of the sun, With whom revenge is virtue.
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.
A soul without reflection, like a pile Without inhabitant, to ruin runs.
They most the world enjoy who least admire.
The man that blushes is not quite a brute.