Imagination in a poet is a faculty so wild and lawless that, like a high ranging spaniel, it must have clogs tied to it, lest it outrun the judgment. The great easiness of blank verse renders the poet too luxuriant. He is tempted to say many things which might better be omitted, or, at least shut up in fewer words.

Pleasure never comes sincere to man; but lent by heaven upon hard usury.

Only man clogs his happiness with care, destroying what is with thoughts of what may be.

Blown roses hold their sweetness to the last.

Shame on the body for breaking down while the spirit perseveres.

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.

All empire is no more than power in trust.