Groan under gold, yet weep for want of bread.

Tomorrow is the day when idlers work, and fools reform and mortal men lay hold on heaven.

A man I knew who lived upon a smile, And well it fed him; he look'd plump and fair, While rankest venom foam'd through every vein.

Youth is not rich in time; it may be poor; Part with it as with money, sparing; pay No moment but in purchase of its worth, And what it's worth, ask death-beds; they can tell.

Our birth is nothing but our death begun; As tapers waste, that instant they take fire.

A God alone can comprehend a God.

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