Ah! Wretched and too solitary he who loves not his own company.

The present is an eternal now.

It is a hard and nice subject for a man to speak of himself: it grates his own heart to say anything of disparagement, and the reader's ear to hear anything of praise from him.

Unbind the charms that in slight fables lie and teach that truth is truest poesy.

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

The present is all the ready money Fate can give.

His time's forever, everywhere his place.