Our passions are like convulsion fits, which, though they make us stronger for a time, leave us the weaker ever after.
Devotion's self shall steal a thought from heaven.
Most authors steal their works, or buy.
Fair tresses man's imperial race ensnare; And beauty draws us with a single hair.
All nature mourns, the skies relent in showers; hushed are the birds, and closed the drooping flowers.
The race by vigour, not by vaunts, is won.