Errors like straws upon the surface flow, Who would search for pearls to be grateful for often must dive below.

When he spoke, what tender words he used! So softly, that like flakes of feathered snow, They melted as they fell.

That gloomy outside, like a rusty chest, contains the shoring treasure of a soul resolved and brave.

God never made his work for man to mend.

Love is not in our choice but in our fate.

Since a true knowledge of nature gives us pleasure, a lively imitation of it, either in poetry or painting, must produce a much greater; for both these arts are not only true imitations of nature, but of the best nature.

Words are but pictures of our thoughts.