One eye on death, and one full fix'd on heaven.

They only babble who practise not reflection

Thy purpose firm is equal to the deed: Who does the best his circumstance allows Does well, acts nobly; angels could no more.

The man that makes a character, makes foes.

Tis immortality, 'tis that alone, Amid life's pains, abasements, emptiness, The soul can comfort, elevate, and fill. That only, and that amply this performs.

There is something about poetry beyond prose logic, there is mystery in it, not to be explained but admired.

Time elaborately thrown away.