Who dares nothing, need hope for nothing.

If the art of gardening is at last to turn back from her extravagances and rest with her other sisters, it is, above everything, necessary to have clearly before you what you require . . . It is certainly tasteless and inconsistent to desire to encompass the world with a garden-wall, but very practicable and reasonable to make a garden . . . into a characteristic whole to the eye, heart, and nderstanding alike.

Revenge is barren of itself: it is the dreadful food it feeds on; its delight is murder, and its end is despair.

I feel an army in my fist.

Who dares nothing, need hope for nothing.

There are evil spirits who suddenly fix their abode in man's unguarded breast, causing us to commit devilish deeds, and then, hurrying back to their native hell, leave behind the stings of remorse in the poisoned bosom.

O who knows what slumbers in the background of the times?