This is to be mortal, And seek the things beyond mortality.

I had a dream, which was not at all a dream.

But words are things, and a small drop of ink, Falling like dew, upon a thought, produces That which makes thousands, perhaps millions, think.

There's music in the sighing of a reed; There's music in the gushing of a rill; There's music in all things, if men had ears; The earth is but the music of the spheres.

Though sages may pour out their wisdom's treasure, there is no sterner moralist than pleasure.

And angling too, that solitary vice, What Izaak Walton sings or says: The quaint, old, cruel coxcomb, in his gullet Should have a hook, and a small trout to pull it.

Her great merit is finding out mine; there is nothing so amiable as discernment.