He is a perpetual fountain of good sense.
Love is not in our choice but in our fate.
He trudged along unknowing what he sought, And whistled as he went, for want of thought.
Ill habits gather unseen degrees, as brooks make rivers, rivers run to seas.
The propriety of thoughts and words, which are the hidden beauties of a play, are but confusedly judged in the vehemence of action.
Genius must be born, and never can be taught.