Freedom which in no other land will thrive, Freedom an English subject's sole prerogative.

Imagining is in itself the very height and life of poetry, which, by a kind of enthusiasm or extraordinary emotion of the soul, makes it seem to us that we behold those things which the poet paints.

The scum that rises upmost, when the nation boils.

Honor is but an empty bubble.

When I consider life, it is all a cheat. Yet fooled with hope, people favor this deceit.

We first make our habits, and then our habits make us.

The perverseness of my fate is such that he's not mine because he's mine too much.