How beautiful is sorrow when it is dressed by virgin innocence! it makes felicity in others seem deformed.
The assembled souls of all that men held wise.
Slow seems their speed whose thoughts before them run.
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.
Calamity is the perfect glass wherein we truly see and know ourselves.
All slander must still be strangled in its birth, or time will soon conspire to make it strong enough to overcome the truth.