A tardy vengeance shares the tyrant's guilt.

Tired nature's sweet restorer, balmy sleep! He, like the world, his ready visit pays Where fortune smiles; the wretched he forsakes.

Friendship's the wine of life.

The love of praise, howe'er conceal'd by art, Reigns more or less, and glows in ev'ry heart.

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

Horace appears in good humor while he censures, and therefore his censure has the more weight, as supposed to proceed from judgment and not from passion.

Man makes a death which Nature never made. And feels a thousand deaths in fearing one.