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Shame on those breasts of stone that cannot melt in soft adoption of another's sorrow.

Aaron Hill

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Aaron Hill
Age: 64 †
Born: 1685
Born: February 10
Died: 1750
Died: February 8
Essayist
Playwright
Poet
Writer
Shame
Sorrow
Tears
Melt
Another
Adoption
Cannot
Breasts
Soft
Stone
Stones

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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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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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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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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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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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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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Customs form us all, our thoughts, our morals, our most fixed beliefs are consequences of our place of birth.
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She who means no mischief does it all.
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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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Youth is ever apt to judge in haste, and lose the medium in the wild extreme.
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Trust me--with women worth the being won, The softest lover ever best succeeds.
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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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Union of hearts, not hands, does a marriage make, and sympathy of mind keeps love awake.
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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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Joys, which we do not know, we do not wish.
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Man is the circled oak woman the ivy.
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