A fool's wild speech confounds the wise.
What skilful limner e'er would choose To paint the rainbow's varying hues, Unless to mortal it were given To dip his brush in dyes of heaven?
Literature is a great staff, but a very sorry crutch.
In the lost battle, Borne down by the flying, Where mingles war's rattle With groans of the dying.
Treason seldom dwells with courage.
Meat eaten without either mirth or music is ill of digestion.