Aaron Hill Quotes

Deceit is the false road to happiness; and all the joys we travel through to vice, like fairy banquets, vanish when we touch them.

Union of hearts, not hands, does a marriage make, and sympathy of mind keeps love awake.

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.

The man with but one idea in his head is sure to exaggerate that to top-heaviness, and thus he loses his equilibrium.

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

Reason gains all people by compelling none.

Customs form us all, our thoughts, our morals, our most fixed beliefs; are consequences of our place of birth.

Mischief and malice grow on the same branch of the tree of evil.

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.

She who means no mischief does it all.

Man is the circled oak; woman the ivy.

Let shining Charity adorn your zeal, The noblest impulse generous minds can feel.

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.

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.

Birth is a shadow. Courage, self-sustained, outlords succession's phlegm, and needs no ancestors.

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.

Order, thou eye of action.

Oh, treacherous night thou lendest thy ready veil to every treason, and teeming mischief's beneath thy shade.

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

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.

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.

Art, however innocent, looks like deceiving.

Trust me--with women worth the being won, The softest lover ever best succeeds.

Joys, which we do not know, we do not wish.

Servile doubt argues an impotence of mind, that says we fear because we dare not meet misfortunes.