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Oh, treacherous night thou lendest thy ready veil to every treason, and teeming mischief's beneath thy shade.

Aaron Hill

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Aaron Hill
Age: 64 †
Born: 1685
Born: February 10
Died: 1750
Died: February 8
Essayist
Playwright
Poet
Writer
Beneath
Thou
Teeming
Ready
Treacherous
Night
Treason
Every
Veil
Mischief
Veils
Shade

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Order, thou eye of action.
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Birth is a shadow. Courage, self-sustained, outlords succession's phlegm, and needs no ancestors.
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Reason gains all people by compelling none.
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Law that shocks equity is reason's murderer.
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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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Servile doubt argues an impotence of mind, that says we fear because we dare not meet misfortunes.
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O marriage! marriage! what a curse is thine, Where hands alone consent and hearts abhor.
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Let shining Charity adorn your zeal, The noblest impulse generous minds can feel.
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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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Man is the circled oak woman the ivy.
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Mischief and malice grow on the same branch of the tree of evil.
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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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She who means no mischief does it all.
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Youth is ever apt to judge in haste, and lose the medium in the wild extreme.
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Shame on those breasts of stone that cannot melt in soft adoption of another's sorrow.
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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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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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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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Trust me--with women worth the being won, The softest lover ever best succeeds.
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