The thought of being nothing after death is a burden insupportable to a virtuous man.
When bounteous autumn rears her head, he joys to pull the ripened pear.
Jealousy's a proof of love, But 'tis a weak and unavailing medicine; It puts out the disease and makes it show, But has no power to cure.
The secret pleasure of a generous act Is the great mind's great bribe.
Good Heaven, whose darling attribute we find is boundless grace, and mercy to mankind, abhors the cruel.
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.