Prolonged endurance tames the bold.

Such hath it been--shall be--beneath the sun The many still must labour for the one.

A feast not profuse but elegant; more of salt [refinement] than of expense.

Romances I ne'er read like those I have seen.

But 'why then publish?' There are no rewards Of fame or profit when the world grows weary. I ask in turn why do you play at cards? Why drink? Why read? To make some hour less dreary. It occupies me to turn back regards On what I've seen or pondered, sad or cheery, And what I write I cast upon the stream To swim or sink. I have had at least my dream.

Then stirs the feeling infinite, so felt In solitude, where we are least alone.

Tyranny is for the worst of treasons.