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.

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.

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.

Man is the circled oak; woman the ivy.

Tender-handed stroke a nettle,