We come to know best what men are, in their worse jeopardizes.
And who in time knows whither we may vent the treasure of our tongue, to what strange shores this gain of our best glories shall be sent, 't unknowing Nations with our stores? What worlds in the yet unformed Occident may come refined with the accents that are ours?
Custom, that is before all law; Nature, that is above all art.
Flattery, the dangerous nurse of vice.
Sacred religion! mother of form and fear.
The wise are above books.