Sir, what is poetry? Why, Sir, it is much easier to say what it is not. We all know what light is; but it is not easy to tell what it is.

When female minds are embittered by age or solitude, their malignity is generally exerted in a rigorous and spiteful superintendence of domestic trifles.

Sorrow is the mere rust of the soul. Activity will cleanse and brighten it.

Guilt once harbored in the conscious breast, intimidates the brave, degrades the great.

The authour who imitates his predecessors only by furnishing himself with thoughts and elegances out of the same general magazine of literature, can with little more propriety be reproached as a plagiary, than the architect can be censured as a mean copier of Angelo or Wren, because he digs his marble out of the same quarry, squares his stones by the same art, and unites them in columns of the same orders.

The relief of enemies has a tendency to unite mankind in fraternal affection.

Gratitude is a fruit of great cultivation; you do not find it among gross people.