Joys, which we do not know, we do not wish. - Aaron Hill

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.

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.

Youth is ever apt to judge in haste, And lose the medium in the wild extreme, Do not repent, but regulate your passion: Though love is reason, its excess is rage. Give me, at least, your promise to reflect, In cool, impartial solitude, and still. No last decision till we meet again.