Many are poets, but without the name;For what is Poesy but to createFrom overfeeling Good or Ill; and aimAt an external life beyond our fate,And be the new Prometheus of new men,Bestowing fire from Heaven, and then, too late,Finding the pleasure given repaid with pain

The lapse of ages changes all things - time - language - the earth - the bounds of the sea - the stars of the sky, and everything 'about, around, and underneath' man, except man himself, who has always been and always will be, an unlucky rascal. The infinite variety of lives conduct but to death, and the infinity of wishes lead but to disappointment. All the discoveries which have yet been made have multiplied little but existence.

In itself a thought, a slumbering thought is capable of years; and curdles a long life into one hour.

I love not man the less, but Nature more.

On with the dance! let joy be unconfin'd No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meet To chase the Glowing Hours with Flying feet

Self praise is no praise at all.

Eat, drink and love...the rest is not worth a nickel