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

When men once reach their autumn, sickly joys fall off apace, as yellow leaves from trees

What tender force, what dignity divine, what virtue consecrating every feature; around that neck what dross are gold and pearl!

Why all this toil for triumphs of an hour? What tho' we wade in Wealth, or soar in Fame? Earth's highest station ends in 'Here he lies;' and 'Dust to dust' concludes the noblest songs.

Live now; be damn'd hereafter.

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

Accept a miracle, instead of wit See two dull lines, with Stanhope's pencil writ.