We push time from us, and we wish him back; * * * * * * Life we think long and short; death seek and shun.

Truth never was indebted to a lie

He that's ungrateful has no guilt but one; All other crimes may pass for virtues in him.

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

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

Born originals, how comes it to pass that we die copies? That meddling ape imitation, as soon as we come to years of indiscretion, (so let me speak,) snatches the pen, and blots out nature's mark of separation, cancels her kind intention, destroys all mental individuality. The lettered world no longer consists of singulars: it is a medley, a mass; and a hundred books, at bottom, are but one.

A soul without reflection, like a pile Without inhabitant, to ruin runs.