This only grant me, that my means may lie, too low for envy, for contempt to high.
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?
Build yourself a book-nest to forget the world without.
Vain, weak-built isthmus, which dost proudly rise Up between two eternities!
Nothing so soon the drooping spirits can raise As praises from the men, whom all men praise.
The monster London laugh at me.