Had sigh'd to many, though he loved but one.

No more we meet in yonder bowers Absence has made me prone to roving; But older, firmer hearts than ours, Have found monotony in loving.

I loved my country, and I hated him.

Critics are already made.

I have always believed that all things depended upon Fortune, and nothing upon ourselves.

I have no consistency, except in politics; and that probably arises from my indifference to the subject altogether.

I shall soon be six-and-twenty. Is there anything in the future that can possibly console us for not being always twenty-five?