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.

Words are like Leaves; and where they most abound, Much Fruit of Sense beneath is rarely found.

Genius involves both envy and calumny.

Those move easiest who have learn'd to dance.

What dire offence from am'rous causes springs, What mighty contests rise from trivial things.

I as little fear that God will damn a man that has charity, as I hope that the priests can save one who has not.

Act well your part, there all the honour lies.