Whosoever loves not picture is injurious to truth, and all the wisdom of poetry. Picture is the invention of heaven, the most ancient and most akin to nature. It is itself a silent work, and always one and the same habit.

Soul of the age! The applause! delight! The wonder of our stage!

True happiness consists not in the multitude of friends, but in the worth and choice.

Let those that merely talk and never think, That live in the wild anarchy of drink

I feel my griefs too, and there scarce is ground Upon my flesh t'inflict another wound. Yet dare I not complain, or wish for death With holy Paul; lest it be thought the breath Of discontent; or that these prayers be For weariness of life, not love of thee.

Ambition makes more trusty slaves than need

I do honor the very flea of his dog.