Titles are marks of honest men, and wise; The fool or knave that wears a title lies.

What ardently we wish, we soon believe.

Britannia's shame! There took her gloomy flight, On wing impetuous, a black sullen soul . Less base the fear of death than fear of life. O Britain! infamous for suicide.

Too low they build who build below the skies.

Give me, indulgent gods with mind serene, And guiltless heart, to range the sylvan scene, No splendid poverty, no smiling care, No well-bred hate, or servile grandeur, there.

The future... seems to me no unified dream but a mince pie, long in the baking, never quite done

How poor, how rich, how abject, how august, How complicate, how wonderful, is man!... Midway from nothing to the Deity!