He liked those literary cooks Who skim the cream of others' books; And ruin half an author's graces By plucking bon-mots from their places.
Hannah More, Florio, the Bas Blue.
... There's a joy,To the fond votaries of fame unknown,To hear the still small voice of conscience speakIn whisp'ring plaudit to the silent soul.Hannah More
To those who know thee not, no words can paint!And those who know thee, know all words are faint!Hannah More
Since trifles make the sum of human things,And half our misery from our foibles springs.Hannah More
In men this blunder still you find,—All think their little set mankind.Hannah More
Small habits well pursued betimesMay reach the dignity of crimes.Hannah More
To those who know thee not, no words can paint; And those who know thee, know all words are faint!Hannah More
In men this blunder still you find, All think their little set mankind.Hannah More
No adulation; 'tis the death of virtue; Who flatters, is of all mankind the lowest Save he who courts the flattery.Hannah More
O sad estate Of human wretchedness; so weak is man, So ignorant and blind, that did not God Sometimes withhold in mercy what we ask, We should be ruined at our own request.Hannah More
Imagination frames events unknown, In wild, fantastic shapes of hideous ruin, And what it fears creates.Hannah More
O jealousy, Thou ugliest fiend of hell! thy deadly venom Preys on my vitals, turns the healthful hue Of my fresh cheek to haggard sallowness, And drinks my spirit up!Hannah More
The roses of pleasure seldom last long enough to adorn the brow of him who plucks them; for they are the only roses which do not retain their sweetness after they have lost their beauty.Hannah More
Our merciful Father has no pleasure in the sufferings of His children; He chastens them in love; He never inflicts a stroke He could safely spare; He inflicts it to purify as well as to punish, to caution as well as to cure, to improve as well as to chastise.Hannah More
Small habits, well pursued betimes, May reach the dignity of crimes.Hannah More