Sleep hath its own world, and the wide realm of wild reality.

Mark! Where his carnage and his conquests cease, He makes a solitude and calls it-peace!

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.

Oh, nature's noblest gift, my grey goose quill, Slave of my thoughts, obedient to my will, Torn from the parent bird to form a pen, That mighty instrument of little men.

Father of Light! great God of Heaven! Hear'st thou the accents of despair? Can guilt like man's be e'er forgiven? Can vice atone for crimes by prayer.

I am acquainted with no immaterial sensuality so delightful as good acting.

Truth is a gem that is found at a great depth; whilst on the surface of the world all things are weighed by the false scale of custom.