Poets are never allowed to be mediocre by the gods, by men or by publishers.
Tear thyself from delay.
The cook cares not a bit for toil, toil, if the fowl be plump and fat
Pale death with an impartial foot knocks at the hovels of the poor and the palaces of king.
How great, my friends, is the virtue of living upon a little!
Tomorrow do thy worst, for I have lived today.