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

May I a small house and large garden have; And a few friends, And many books, both true.

Acquaintance I would have, but when it depends; not on number, but the choice of friends.

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?

All this world's noise appears to me a dull, ill-acted comedy!

Hope is the most hopeless thing of all.