How do we know that we have a right to kill creatures that we are so little above, as dogs, for our curiosity or even for some use to us?

One science only will one genius fit; so vast is art, so narrow human wit.

Good God! how often are we to die before we go quite off this stage? In every friend we lose a part of ourselves, and the best part.

The lot of man - to suffer and to die.

Did some more sober critics come abroad? If wrong, I smil'd; if right, I kiss'd the rod.

An excuse is worse and more terrible than a lie; for an excuse is a lie guarded.

Is there a parson much bemused in beer, a maudlin poetess, a rhyming peer, a clerk foredoom'd his father's soul to cross, who pens a stanza when he should engross?