Time destroyed Is suicide, where more than blood is spilt.

What tender force, what dignity divine, what virtue consecrating every feature; around that neck what dross are gold and pearl!

Horace appears in good humor while he censures, and therefore his censure has the more weight, as supposed to proceed from judgment and not from passion.

Night, sable goddess! from her ebon throne, In rayless majesty, now stretches forth Her leaden sceptre o'er a slumbering world.

When pain can't bless, heaven quits us in despair.

By night an atheist half-believes in God.

An angel's arm can't snatch me from the grave; legions of angels can't confine me there.