O Death, what are thou? nurse of dreamless slumbers freshening the fevered flesh to a wakefulness eternal.
The seeds of first instructions are dropp'd into the deepest furrows.
Rashly, nor ofttimes truly, doth man pass judgment on his brother; for he seeth not the springs of the heart, nor heareth the reasons of the mind.
Hatred is the atmosphere of hell.
Well-timed silence hath more eloquence than speech.
Betray mean terror of ridicule, thou shalt find fools enough to mock thee; but answer thou their language with contempt, and the scoffers will lick thy feet.