Ill habits gather unseen degrees, as brooks make rivers, rivers run to seas.
Raw in the fields the rude militia swarms, Mouth without hands; maintained at vast expense, In peace a charge, in war a weak defence.
The secret pleasure of a generous act Is the great mind's great bribe.
I'm a little wounded, but I am not slain; I will lay me down to bleed a while. Then I'll rise and fight again.
For Art may err, but Nature cannot miss.
None are so busy as the fool and the knave.