Thy thoughts to nobler meditations give, And study how to die, not how to live.
'Tis impious pleasure to delight in harm. And beauty should be kind, as well as charm.
A thousand fears still overawe when she appears.
'Tis the talk, and not the intrigue, that's the crime.
But, oh! what mighty magician can assuage a woman's envy?
What we frankly give, forever is our own.
Happy the man, of mortals happiest he, whose quiet mind from vain desires is free; whom neither hopes deceive, nor fears torment, but lives at peace, within himself content; in thought, or act, accountable to none but to himself, and to the gods alone.
Who to a woman trusts his peace of mind, Trusts a frail bark, with a tempestuous wind.
Mankind, from Adam, have been women's fools; women, from Eve, have been the devil's tools: Heaven might have spar'd one torment when we fell; not left us women, or not threatened hell.
Who would with care some happy fiction frame, so mimics truth it looks the very same.
Marriage the happiest bond of love might be, If hands were only joined when hearts agree.
Whoe'er thou art, thy lord and master see, Thou wast my Slave, thou art, or thou shalt be.
O Love! thou bane of the most generous souls! Thou doubtful pleasure, and thou certain pain.
Wycherley in his writings is the sharpest satirist of his time, but in his nature he has all the softness of the tenderest dispositions. In his writings he is severe, bold, undertaking; in his nature, gentle, modest, inoffensive.
Of all the plagues with which the world is curst, of every ill, a woman is the worst.
Patience is the virtue of an ass, who treads beneath his burden and complains not.
Shall Nature, erring from her first command, self-preservation, fall by her own hand?
Since truth and constancy are vain, since neither love, nor sense of pain, nor force of reason, can persuade, then let example be obey'd.
The kiss you take is paid by that you give: The joy is mutual, and I'm still in debt.
The radiant sun sends from above ten thousand blessings down, nor is he set so high for show alone.
The virtuous nothing fear but life with shame, and death's a pleasant road that leads to fame.
Tho' train'd in Arms, and learn'd in martial Arts,
Thou choosest, not to conquer Men, but Hearts;
Expecting Nations for thy Triumphs wait,
But thou prefer'st the Name of Just to Great.
So Jove suspends his subject World to Doom,
Which, would he please to Thunder, he'd consume.
O! could the Ghosts of mighty Heroes dead,
Return on Earth, and quit th'Elysian Shade!
Brutus to James would trust the Peoples Cause;
Thy Justice is a stronger Guard than Laws.
Marius and Sylla would resign to Thee,
Nor Cæsar and great Pompey Rivals be;
Or Rivals only, who should best obey,
And Cato give his Voice for Regal Sway.
'Tis sweet to love; but when with scorn we meet, revenge supplies the loss with joys as great.