For secrets are edged tools, And must be kept from children and from fools.

Love is a child that talks in broken language, yet then he speaks most plain.

The scum that rises upmost, when the nation boils.

Welcome, thou kind deceiver! Thou best of thieves; who, with an easy key, Dost open life, and, unperceived by us, Even steal us from ourselves.

Only man clogs his happiness with care, destroying what is with thoughts of what may be.

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

Hushed as midnight silence.