The conscience of a people is their power.

So over violent, or over civil that every man with him was God or Devil.

Imagining is in itself the very height and life of poetry, which, by a kind of enthusiasm or extraordinary emotion of the soul, makes it seem to us that we behold those things which the poet paints.

Fortune, that with malicious joyDoes man her slave oppress,Proud of her office to destroy,Is seldom pleasd to bless.

Errors like straws upon the surface flow, Who would search for pearls to be grateful for often must dive below.

Time glides with undiscover'd haste; The future but a length behind the past.

Roused by the lash of his own stubborn tail our lion now will foreign foes assail.