Of Manners gentle, of Affections mild; In Wit a man; Simplicity, a child.

Conceit is to nature what paint is to beauty; it is not only needless, but it impairs what it would improve.

The young disease, that must subdue at length, Grows with his growth, and strengthens with his strength.

To wake the soul by tender strokes of art, To raise the genius, and to mend the heart; To make mankind, in conscious virtue bold, Live o'er each Seene, and be what they behold: For this the Tragic Muse first trod the stage.

I begin where most people end, with a full conviction of the emptiness of all sorts of ambition, and the unsatisfactory nature of all human pleasures.

Dear fatal name! rest ever unreveal'd, Nor pass these lips in holy silence seal'd. Hide it, my heart, within that close disguise, Where mixed with Gods, his lov'd idea lies: O write it not, my hand - the name appears Already written - wash it out, my tears! In vain lost Eloisa weeps and prays, Her heart still dictates, and her hand obeyes.

It is not so much the being exempt from faults, as having overcome them, that is an advantage to us.