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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.

Aaron Hill

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Aaron Hill
Age: 64 †
Born: 1685
Born: February 10
Died: 1750
Died: February 8
Essayist
Playwright
Poet
Writer
Thus
Loses
Head
Sure
Idea
Ideas
Heaviness
Men
Exaggerate
Equilibrium

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Let shining Charity adorn your zeal, The noblest impulse generous minds can feel.
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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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O marriage! marriage! what a curse is thine, Where hands alone consent and hearts abhor.
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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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Art, however innocent, looks like deceiving.
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Youth is ever apt to judge in haste, and lose the medium in the wild extreme.
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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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She who means no mischief does it all.
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Reason gains all people by compelling none.
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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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The man who pauses on the paths of treason, Halts on a quicksand, the first step engulfs him.
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Union of hearts, not hands, does a marriage make, and sympathy of mind keeps love awake.
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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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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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Joys, which we do not know, we do not wish.
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Mischief and malice grow on the same branch of the tree of evil.
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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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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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Shame on those breasts of stone that cannot melt in soft adoption of another's sorrow.
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