Learn to write well, or not to write at all.

…So when the last and dreadful hour This crumbling pageant shall devour, The trumpet shall be heard on high, The dead shall live, the living die, And Music shall untune the sky

I strongly wish for what I faintly hope; like the daydreams of melancholy men, I think and think in things impossible, yet love to wander in that golden maze.

Of all the tyrannies on human kind the worst is that which persecutes the mind.

Words are but pictures of our thoughts.

The province of the soul is large enough to fill up every cranny of your time, and leave you much to answer for if one wretch be damned by your neglect.

For secrets are edged tools, And must be kept from children and from fools.