One of the greatest, most noble, and most sublime poems which either this age or nation has produced.

Fiction is of the essence of poetry as well as of painting; there is a resemblance in one of human bodies, things, and actions which are not real, and in the other of a true story by fiction.

Virtue is her own reward.

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

Death ends our woes, and the kind grave shuts up the mournful scene.

The propriety of thoughts and words, which are the hidden beauties of a play, are but confusedly judged in the vehemence of action.

Our vows are heard betimes! and Heaven takes care To grant, before we can conclude the prayer: Preventing angels met it half the way, And sent us back to praise, who came to pray.