Happy the man, and happy he alone, he who can call today his own; he who, secure within, can say, tomorrow do thy worst, for I have lived today.

Men are but children of a larger growth, Our appetites as apt to change as theirs, And full as craving too, and full as vain.

I maintain, against the enemies of the stage, that patterns of piety, decently represented, may second the precepts.

An horrible stillness first invades our ear, And in that silence we the tempest fear.

Great souls forgive not injuries till time has put their enemies within their power, that they may show forgiveness is their own.

Her wit was more than man, her innocence a child.

But wild Ambition loves to slide, not stand, And Fortune's ice prefers to Virtue's land.