Charm strikes the sight, but merit wins the soul.

Wholesome solitude, the nurse of sense!

For thee I dim these eye and stuff this head With all such reading as was never read.

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.

No, make me mistress to the man I love; If there be yet another name more free More fond than mistress, make me that to thee!

Wise wretch! with pleasures too refined to please, With too much spirit to be e'er at ease, With too much quickness ever to be taught, With too much thinking to have common thought: You purchase pain with all that joy can give, And die of nothing but a rage to live.

Gentle dullness ever loves a joke.