A happy genius is the gift of nature.

Here lies my wife: here let her lie! Now she's at rest, and so am I.

Our souls sit close and silently within, And their own web from their own entrails spin; And when eyes meet far off, our sense is such, That, spider-like, we feel the tenderest touch.

Truth is never to be expected from authors whose understanding is warped with enthusiasm.

The fool of nature stood with stupid eyes And gaping mouth, that testified surprise.

Virtue without success is a fair picture shown by an ill light; but lucky men are favorites of heaven; all own the chief, when fortune owns the cause.

…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