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O marriage! marriage! what a curse is thine, Where hands alone consent and hearts abhor.

Aaron Hill

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Aaron Hill
Age: 64 †
Born: 1685
Born: February 10
Died: 1750
Died: February 8
Essayist
Playwright
Poet
Writer
Consent
Curse
Hearts
Marriage
Alone
Hands
Abhor
Heart
Matrimony
Thine

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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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Servile doubt argues an impotence of mind, that says we fear because we dare not meet misfortunes.
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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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Order, thou eye of action.
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Man is the circled oak woman the ivy.
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Law that shocks equity is reason's murderer.
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Reason gains all people by compelling none.
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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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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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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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Art, however innocent, looks like deceiving.
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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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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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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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Shame on those breasts of stone that cannot melt in soft adoption of another's sorrow.
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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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Mischief and malice grow on the same branch of the tree of evil.
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Joys, which we do not know, we do not wish.
Aaron Hill