Sleep is a god too proud to wait in palaces, and yet so humble too as not to scorn the meanest country cottages.

Vain, weak-built isthmus, which dost proudly rise Up between two eternities!

Hope! fortune's cheating lottery; when for one prize an hundred blanks there be!

Plenty, as well as Want, can separate friends.

I would not fear nor wish my fate, but boldly say each night, to-morrow let my sun his beams display, or in clouds hide them; I have lived today.

Does not the passage of Moses and the Israelites into the Holy Land yield incomparably more poetic variety than the voyages of Ulysses or Aeneas?

What shall I do to be for ever known, And make the age to come my own?