Death in itself is nothing; but we fear to be we know not what, we know not where.
Content with poverty, my soul I arm; And virtue, though in rags, will keep me warm.
If passion rules, how weak does reason prove!
Forgiveness to the injured does belong; but they ne'er pardon who have done wrong.
He who trusts secrets to a servant makes him his master
Fattened in vice, so callous and so gross, he sins and sees not, senseless of his loss.