Fame, like the river, is narrowest where it is bred, and broadest afar off.
All jealousy must be strangled in its birth.
How much pleasure they lose (and even the pleasures of heroic poesy are not unprofitable) who take away the liberty of a poet, and fetter his feet in the shackles of a historian.
Since knowledge is but sorrow's spy, It is not safe to know.
It is the wit and policy of sin to hate those we have abused.
Calamity is the perfect glass wherein we truly see and know ourselves.