Souls made of fire, and children of the sun, With whom revenge is virtue.

In youth, what disappointments of our own making: in age, what disappointments from the nature of things.

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.

Narcissus is the glory of his race: For who does nothing with a better grace?.

Less base the fear of death than fear of life.

Britannia's shame! There took her gloomy flight, On wing impetuous, a black sullen soul . Less base the fear of death than fear of life. O Britain! infamous for suicide.

Nature delights in progress; in advance.