A poet is a painter in his way, he draws to the life, but in another kind; we draw the nobler part, the soul and the mind; the pictures of the pen shall outlast those of the pencil, and even worlds themselves.

A brave world, sir, full of religion, knavery, and change: we shall shortly see better days.

Time lessens all extremes and reduces 'em to mediums and unconcern.

You may make love in dancing as well as sitting.

I value fame as much as if I had been born a Hero.

Love ceases to be a pleasure, when it ceases to be a secret.

'Twas but a dream, yet by my heart I knew, Which still was panting, part of it was true: Oh how I strove the rest to have believed; Ashamed and angry to be undeceived!