I cannot conceive why people will always mix up my own character and opinions with those of the imaginary beings which, as a poet, I have the right and liberty to draw.

Death, so called, is a thing which makes men weep, And yet a third of life is passed in sleep.

What's drinking? A mere pause from thinking!

Tis an old lesson; time approves it true, And those who know it best, deplore it most; When all is won that all desire to woo, The paltry prize is hardly worth the cost.

Those who will not reason, are bigots, those who cannot, are fools, and those who dare not, are slaves.

What is Death, so it be but glorious? 'Tis a sunset; And mortals may be happy to resemble The Gods but in decay.

They used to say that knowledge is power. I used to think so, but I know now they mean money.