Quote

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.

Aaron Hill

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Aaron Hill
Age: 64 †
Born: 1685
Born: February 10
Died: 1750
Died: February 8
Essayist
Playwright
Poet
Writer
Common
Tender
Rogues
Pain
Obey
Natures
Use
Ems
Kindly
Wells
Grasp
Stroke
Nutmeg
Well
Rebel
Silk
Nettle
Men
Soft
Pains
Stings
Like
Rough
Handed
Nettles
Remains
Strokes
Mettle

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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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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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Oh, treacherous night thou lendest thy ready veil to every treason, and teeming mischief's beneath thy shade.
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Youth is ever apt to judge in haste, and lose the medium in the wild extreme.
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Birth is a shadow. Courage, self-sustained, outlords succession's phlegm, and needs no ancestors.
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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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Let shining Charity adorn your zeal, The noblest impulse generous minds can feel.
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First, then, a woman will, or won't, - depend on't If she will do't, she will and there's an end on't. But, if she won't, since safe and sound your trust is, Fear is affront: and jealousy injustice.
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She who means no mischief does it all.
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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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Man is the circled oak woman the ivy.
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O marriage! marriage! what a curse is thine, Where hands alone consent and hearts abhor.
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Shun fear, it is the ague of the soul! a passion man created for himself--for sure that cramp of nature could not dwell in the warm realms of glory.
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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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Union of hearts, not hands, does a marriage make, and sympathy of mind keeps love awake.
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Art, however innocent, looks like deceiving.
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Shame on those breasts of stone that cannot melt in soft adoption of another's sorrow.
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Joys, which we do not know, we do not wish.
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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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Trust me--with women worth the being won, The softest lover ever best succeeds.
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