It is a madness to make fortune the mistress of events, because in herself she is nothing, can rule nothing, but is ruled by prudence.
New vows to plight, and plighted vows to break.
Thou strong seducer, Opportunity!
Death in itself is nothing; but we fear to be we know not what, we know not where.
Raw in the fields the rude militia swarms, Mouth without hands; maintained at vast expense, In peace a charge, in war a weak defence.
For all the happiness mankind can gain Is not in pleasure, but in rest from pain.