For any man to match above his rank is but to sell his liberty.

Cheerful looks make every dish a feast, and it is that which crowns a welcome.

We have not an hour of life in which our pleasures relish not some pain, our sours, some sweetness.

Malice scorned, puts out itself; but argued, give a kind of credit to a false accusation.

Revenge, that thirsty dropsy of our souls, makes us covet that which hurts us most.

Ambition, in a private man is a vice, is in a prince the virtue.

Virtue, thou in rags, may challenge more than vice set off with all the trim of greatness.