The person of wisdom is the person of years.

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

Who knows if Shakespeare might not have thought less if he had read more?

We nothing know, but what is marvellous; Yet what is marvellous, we can't believe.

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.

Early, bright, transient, chaste as morning dew, She sparkled, was exhaled, and went to heaven.

Revere thyself, and yet thyself despise