Fanatics have their dreams, wherewith they weave a paradise for a sect.
Wine is only sweet to happy men.
How sad it is when a luxurious imagination is obliged in self defense to deaden its delicacy in vulgarity, and riot in things attainable that it may not have leisure to go mad after things that are not.
Music's golden tongue Flatter'd to tears this aged man and poor.
The poetry of the earth is never dead.
Every mental pursuit takes its reality and worth from the ardour of the pursuer.