Could swell the soul to rage, or kindle soft desire.
No king nor nation one moment can retard the appointed hour.
Happy the man, and happy he alone, he, who can call today his own.
Virtue is her own reward.
Jealousy is the jaundice of the soul.
Imagining is in itself the very height and life of poetry, which, by a kind of enthusiasm or extraordinary emotion of the soul, makes it seem to us that we behold those things which the poet paints.