The olive grove of Academe, Plato's retirement, where the Attic bird Trills her thick-warbled notes the summer long.

His form had yet not lost All her original brightness, nor appear'd Less than archangel ruin'd, and th' excess Of glory obscur'd.

What is dark within me, illumine.

Among the writers of all ages, some deserve fame, and have it; others neither have nor deserve it; some have it, not deserving it; others, though deserving it, yet totally miss it, or have it not equal to their deserts.

Neither prosperity nor empire nor heaven can be worth winning at the price of a virulent temper, bloody hands, an anguished spirit, and a vain hatred of the rest of the world.

Hail, wedded love, mysterious law; true source of human happiness.

A good book is the precious lifeblood of a master spirit.