Fattened in vice, so callous and so gross, he sins and sees not, senseless of his loss.
The perverseness of my fate is such that he's not mine because he's mine too much.
He invades authors like a monarch; and what would be theft in other poets is only victory in him.
Let grace and goodness be the principal loadstone of thy affections. For love which hath ends, will have an end; whereas that which is founded on true virtue, will always continue.
Few know the use of life before 'tis past.
What judgment I had increases rather than diminishes; and thoughts, such as they are, come crowding in so fast upon me, that my only difficulty is to choose or reject; to run them into verse or to give them the other harmony of prose.