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

Affliction is a good man's shining time.

Be wise to-day; 't is madness to defer.

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.

Woes cluster. Rare are solitary woes; They love a train, they tread each other's heel.

All men think that all men are mortal but themselves.

Sense is our helmet, wit is but the plume; The plume exposes, 'tis our helmet saves. Sense is the diamond, weighty, solid, sound; When cut by wit, it casts a brighter beam; Yet, wit apart, it is a diamond still.