War is a trade of kings.
Great souls forgive not injuries till time has put their enemies within their power, that they may show forgiveness is their own.
He who would pry behind the scenes oft sees a counterfeit.
Raw in the fields the rude militia swarms, Mouth without hands; maintained at vast expense, In peace a charge, in war a weak defence.
We must beat the iron while it is hot, but we may polish it at leisure.
Pity melts the mind to love.