Pity melts the mind to love.

All, as they say, that glitters is not gold.

…So when the last and dreadful hour This crumbling pageant shall devour, The trumpet shall be heard on high, The dead shall live, the living die, And Music shall untune the sky

He who would pry behind the scenes oft sees a counterfeit.

Fortune, that with malicious joyDoes man her slave oppress,Proud of her office to destroy,Is seldom pleasd to bless.

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

Love reckons hours for months, and days for years; and every little absence is an age.