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The man who pauses on the paths of treason, Halts on a quicksand, the first step engulfs him.

Aaron Hill

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Aaron Hill
Age: 64 †
Born: 1685
Born: February 10
Died: 1750
Died: February 8
Essayist
Playwright
Poet
Writer
Paths
Step
Steps
Engulfs
Path
Halts
Firsts
Quicksand
First
Treason
Men
Halt
Pauses

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Trust me--with women worth the being won, The softest lover ever best succeeds.
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Birth is a shadow. Courage, self-sustained, outlords succession's phlegm, and needs no ancestors.
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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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Art, however innocent, looks like deceiving.
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She who means no mischief does it all.
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Man is the circled oak woman the ivy.
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Reason gains all people by compelling none.
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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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Shame on those breasts of stone that cannot melt in soft adoption of another's sorrow.
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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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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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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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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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Youth is ever apt to judge in haste, and lose the medium in the wild extreme.
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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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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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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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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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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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