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Youth is ever apt to judge in haste, and lose the medium in the wild extreme.

Aaron Hill

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Aaron Hill
Age: 64 †
Born: 1685
Born: February 10
Died: 1750
Died: February 8
Essayist
Playwright
Poet
Writer
Lose
Medium
Loses
Mediums
Ever
Extreme
Extremes
Wild
Judge
Judging
Youth
Haste

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Law that shocks equity is reason's murderer.
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Hide not thy tears weep boldly, and be proud to give the flowing virtue manly way it is nature's mark to know an honest heart by.
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Union of hearts, not hands, does a marriage make, and sympathy of mind keeps love awake.
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Tender-handed stroke a nettle, And it stings you for your pains Grasp it like a man of mettle, And it soft as silk remains. 'Tis the same with common natures: Use 'em kindly, they rebel But be rough as nutmeg-graters, And the rogues obey you well.
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When Christ at Cana's feast by pow'r divine, Inspir'd cold water, with the warmth of wine, See! cry'd they while, in red'ning tide, it gush'd, The bashful stream hath seen its God and blush'd.
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Letters, from absent friends, extinguish fear, Unite division, and draw distance near Their magic force each silent wish conveys, And wafts embodied though, a thousand ways: Could souls to bodies write, death's pow'r were mean, For minds could then meet minds with heav'n between.
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Customs form us all, our thoughts, our morals, our most fixed beliefs are consequences of our place of birth.
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O marriage! marriage! what a curse is thine, Where hands alone consent and hearts abhor.
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Trust me--with women worth the being won, The softest lover ever best succeeds.
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The man with but one idea in his head is sure to exaggerate that to top-heaviness, and thus he loses his equilibrium.
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Shame on those breasts of stone that cannot melt in soft adoption of another's sorrow.
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Deceit is the false road to happiness and all the joys we travel through to vice, like fairy banquets, vanish when we touch them.
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The man who pauses on the paths of treason, Halts on a quicksand, the first step engulfs him.
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Oh, treacherous night thou lendest thy ready veil to every treason, and teeming mischief's beneath thy shade.
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Let shining Charity adorn your zeal, The noblest impulse generous minds can feel.
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Servile doubt argues an impotence of mind, that says we fear because we dare not meet misfortunes.
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Art, however innocent, looks like deceiving.
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Mischief and malice grow on the same branch of the tree of evil.
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Let never man be bold enough to say, Thus, and no farther shall my passion stray: The first crime, past, compels us into more, And guilt grows fate, that was but choice, before.
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Order, thou eye of action.
Aaron Hill