But far more numerous was the herd of such, Who think too little, and who talk too much.

Sweet is pleasure after pain.

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.

Fortune's unjust; she ruins oft the brave, and him who should be victor, makes the slave.

And plenty makes us poor.

Our souls sit close and silently within, And their own web from their own entrails spin; And when eyes meet far off, our sense is such, That, spider-like, we feel the tenderest touch.

No government has ever been, or can ever be, wherein time-servers and blockheads will not be uppermost.