The race by vigour, not by vaunts, is won.

Nor public flame, nor private, dares to shine; Nor human spark is left, nor glimpse divine! Lo! thy dread empire, Chaos! is restored; Light dies before thy uncreating word: Thy hand, great Anarch! lets the curtain fall; And universal darkness buries all.

The greatest advantage I know of being thought a wit by the world is, that it gives one the greater freedom of playing the fool.

Teach me to feel another's woe, to hide the fault I see, that mercy I to others show, that mercy show to me.

A field of glory is a field for all.

But those who cannot write, and those who can, All rhyme, and scrawl, and scribble, to a man.

Slave to no sect, who takes no private road, But looks through Nature up to Nature's God.