Beauty, like ice, our footing does betray; Who can tread sure on the smooth, slippery way: Pleased with the surface, we glide swiftly on, And see the dangers that we cannot shun.
Time, place, and action may with pains be wrought, but genius must be born; and never can be taught.
Even victors are by victories undone.
Pains of love be sweeter far than all other pleasures are.
Repentance is but want of power to sin.
What passions cannot music raise or quell?