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
Like
Rough
Handed
Nettles
Remains
Strokes
Mettle
Common
Tender
Rogues
Pain
Obey
Natures
Use
Ems
Kindly
Wells
Grasp
Stroke
Nutmeg
Well
Rebel
Silk
Nettle
Men
Soft
Pains
Stings

More quotes by Aaron Hill

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Reason gains all people by compelling none.
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Courage is poorly housed that dwells in numbers the lion never counts the herd that are about him, nor weighs how many flocks he has to scatter.
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O marriage! marriage! what a curse is thine, Where hands alone consent and hearts abhor.
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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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There is no merit where there is no trial and till experience stamps the mark of strength, cowards may pass for heroes, and faith for falsehood.
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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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Trust me--with women worth the being won, The softest lover ever best succeeds.
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Mischief and malice grow on the same branch of the tree of evil.
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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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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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Union of hearts, not hands, does a marriage make, and sympathy of mind keeps love awake.
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Birth is a shadow. Courage, self-sustained, outlords succession's phlegm, and needs no ancestors.
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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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Joys, which we do not know, we do not wish.
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Man is the circled oak woman the ivy.
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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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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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Shame on those breasts of stone that cannot melt in soft adoption of another's sorrow.
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Youth is ever apt to judge in haste, and lose the medium in the wild extreme.
Aaron Hill