We first make our habits, and then our habits make us.

An ugly woman in a rich habit set out with jewels nothing can become.

Joy rul'd the day, and Love the night.

He invades authors like a monarch; and what would be theft in other poets is only victory in him.

Love works a different way in different minds, the fool it enlightens and the wise it blinds.

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.

…So when the last and dreadful hour This crumbling pageant shall devour, The trumpet shall be heard on high, The dead shall live, the living die, And Music shall untune the sky