And 'tis remarkable that they talk most who have the least to say.
Be to their virtue very kind; be to their faults a little blind.
Cured yesterday of my disease, I died last night of my physician.
Fantastic tyrant of the amorous heart. How hard thy yoke, how cruel thy dart. Those escape your anger who refuse your sway, and those are punished most, who most obey.
For hope is but a dream for those that wake.
For, when with beauty we can virtue join, We paint the semblance of a form divine.
Hope is but the dream of those who wake.
It takes two to quarrel, but only one to end it.
They never taste who always drink: They always talk, who never think.
They talk most who have the least to say.
Hopes are but the dreams of those that wake.