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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
Men
Halt
Pauses
Paths
Step
Steps
Engulfs
Path
Halts
Firsts
Quicksand
First
Treason

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