I am one of those who hold that poetry is never so blithe as in a wanton and irregular subject.

Our thoughts are always elsewhere; we are stayed and supported by the hope for a better life, or by the hope that our children will turn out well, or that our name will be famous in the future, or that we shall escape the evils of this life, or that vengeance threatens those who are the cause of our death.

The bees pillage the flowers here and there but they make honey of them which is all their own; it is no longer thyme or marjolaine: so the pieces borrowed from others he will transform and mix up into a work all his own.

The pleasantest things in the world are pleasant thoughts, and the great art of life is to have as many of them as possible.

The perpetual work of your life is but to lay the foundation of death.

We perceive no charms that are not sharpened, puffed out, and inflated by artifice. Those which glide along naturally and simply easily escape a sight so gross as ours.

The shortest way to arrive at glory would be to do that for conscience which we do for glory.