Death in itself is nothing; but we fear to be we know not what, we know not where

To die is landing on some distant shore

So softly death succeeded life in her, She did but dream of heaven, and she was there

Dancing is the poetry of the foot

Successful crimes alone are justified

When I consider life, 'tis all a cheat. Yet, fooled by hope, men favour the deceit; trust on, and think to-morrow will repay: to-morrow's falser than the former day

He who trusts secrets to a servant makes him his master

None but the brave deserves the fair

Boldness is a mask for fear, however great

Bacchus blessings are a treasure, Drinking is the soldier's pleasure