I love not man the less, but Nature more.

Oh, talk not to me of a name great in story; The days of our youth are the days of our glory; And the myrtle and ivy of sweet two-and-twenty Are worth all your laurels, though ever so plenty.

Opinions are made to be changed or how is truth to be got at?

There are some feelings time cannot benumb, Nor torture shake.

But every fool describes, in these bright days, His wondrous journey to some foreign court, And spawns his quarto, and demands your praise,-- Death to his publisher, to him 'tis sport.

Oh who can tell, save he whose heart hath tried.

There is, in fact, no law or government at all; and it is wonderful how well things go on without them.