Live now; be damn'd hereafter.
Death loves a shining mark, a signal blow.
Blest leisure is our curse; like that of Cain, It, makes us wander, wander earth around, To fly that tyrant Thought. As Atlas groan'd The world beneath, we groan beneath an hour.
Wonder is involuntary praise.
Who knows if Shakespeare might not have thought less if he had read more?
Where Nature's end of language is declin'd, And men talk only to conceal the mind.