He was the man who of all modern, and perhaps ancient poets, had the largest and most comprehensive soul. . . . He was naturally learn'd; he needed not the spectacles of books to read Nature; he looked inwards, and found her there. . . . He is many times flat, insipid; his comic wit degenerating in to clenches, his serious swelling into bombast. But he is always great, when some occasion is presented to him.

No king nor nation one moment can retard the appointed hour.

…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

Boldness is a mask for fear, however great.

If you have lived, take thankfully the past. Make, as you can, the sweet remembrance last.

Beware of the fury of the patient man.

Errors like straws upon the surface flow, Who would search for pearls to be grateful for often must dive below.