I count myself in nothing else so happy as in a soul remembering my good friends.
Make use of time, let not advantage slip
The lunatic, the lover, and the poet, are of imagination all compact.
A peace is of the nature of a conquest; for then both parties nobly are subdued, and neither party loser.
At Christmas I no more desire a rose
Than wish a snow in May’s new-fangled shows,
But like of each thing that in season grows.
Absence from those we love is self from self – a deadly banishment.
Listen to many, speak to a few.
Cowards die many times before their deaths; the valiant never
taste of death but once.
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