This was my prayer: an adequate portion of land with a garden and a spring of water and a small wood to complete the picture.

Pale death knocks with impartial foot at poor men's hovels and king's palaces.

Fate with impartial hand turns out the doom of high and low; her capacious urn is constantly shaking the names of all mankind.

I have raised for myself a monument more durable than brass.

Limbs of a dismembered poet.

In avoiding one vice fools rush into the opposite extreme.

There is need of brevity, that the thought may run on.