There's not a joy the world can give like that it takes away.

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.

As soon seek roses in December, ice in June, Hope constancy in wind, or corn in chaff Believe a woman or an epitaph Or any other thing that’s false Before you trust in critics.

Yet smelt roast meat, beheld a huge fire shine, And cooks in motion with their clean arms bared.

Know ye not who would be free themselves must strike the blow? by their right arms the conquest must be wrought?

The English winter - ending in July to recommence in August

When people say, "I've told you fifty times," They mean to scold, and very often do; When poets say, "I've written fifty rhymes," They make you dread that they'll recite them too; In gangs of fifty, thieves commit their crimes; At fifty love for love is rare, 't is true, but then, no doubt, it equally as true is, a good deal may be bought for fifty Louis.