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

Fool that I was, upon my eagle's wings I bore this wren, till I was tired with soaring, and now he mounts above me.

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

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

The glorious lamp of heaven, the radiant sun, Is Nature's eye.

Be secret and discreet; the fairy favors are lost when not concealed.

He trudged along unknowing what he sought, And whistled as he went, for want of thought.