The qualities all in a bee that we meet, In an epigram never should fail; The body should always be little and sweet, And a sting should be felt in its tail.

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

O! lost to virtue, lost to manly thought, Lost to the noble sallies of the soul! Who think it solitude to be alone.

The soft whispers of the God in man.

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.

But fate ordains that dearest friends must part.

Some for renown, on scraps of learning dote, And think they grow immortal as they quote.