Accept a miracle, instead of wit See two dull lines, with Stanhope's pencil writ.

Sense is our helmet, wit is but the plume; The plume exposes, 'tis our helmet saves. Sense is the diamond, weighty, solid, sound; When cut by wit, it casts a brighter beam; Yet, wit apart, it is a diamond still.

This vast and solid earth, that blazing sun, Those skies, thro' which it rolls, must all have end. What then is man? The smallest part of nothing.

The first sure symptom of a mind in health Is rest of heart and pleasure felt at home.

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

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

Live now; be damn'd hereafter.