But far more numerous was the herd of such, Who think too little, and who talk too much.

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

Our souls sit close and silently within, And their own web from their own entrails spin; And when eyes meet far off, our sense is such, That, spider-like, we feel the tenderest touch.

Many things impossible to thought have been by need to full perfection brought.

Truth is the foundation of all knowledge and the cement of all societies.

I maintain, against the enemies of the stage, that patterns of piety, decently represented, may second the precepts.

Dancing is the poetry of the foot.