To die is landing on some distant shore.
We by art unteach what Nature taught.
He is the very Janus of poets; he wears almost everywhere two faces; and you have scarce begun to admire the one, ere you despise the other.
When he spoke, what tender words he used! So softly, that like flakes of feathered snow, They melted as they fell.
Swift was the race, but short the time to run.
If by the people you understand the multitude, the hoi polloi, 'tis no matter what they think; they are sometimes in the right, sometimes in the wrong; their judgment is a mere lottery.