Swift was the race, but short the time to run.

Softly sweet, in Lydian measures, Soon he sooth'd his soul to pleasures. War, he sung, is toil and trouble; Honour but an empty bubble; Never ending, still beginning, Fighting still, and still destroying. If all the world be worth the winning, Think, oh think it worth enjoying: Lovely Thais sits beside thee, Take the good the gods provide thee.

Even kings but play; and when their part is done, some other, worse or better, mounts the throne.

Truth is the foundation of all knowledge and the cement of all societies.

She, though in full-blown flower of glorious beauty, Grows cold even in the summer of her age.

Learn to write well, or not to write at all.

Pains of love be sweeter far than all other pleasures are.