Such is the state of life, that none are happy but by the anticipation of change: the change itself is nothing; when we have made it, the next wish is to change again.

Claret is the liquor for boys; port for men; but he who aspires to be a hero must drink brandy.

He that condemns himself to compose on a stated day will often bring to his task attention dissipated, a memory embarrassed, an imagination overwhelmed, a mind distracted with anxieties, a body languishing with disease: he will labour on a barren topic till it is too late to change it; or, in the ardour of invention, diffuse his thoughts into wild exuberance, which the pressing hour of publication cannot suffer judgment to examine or reduce.

We seldom require more to the happiness of the present hour than to surpass him that stands next before us.

This man [Chesterfield], I thought, had been a Lord among wits; but I find he is only a wit among Lords.

Paradise Lost is a book that, once put down, is very hard to pick up again.

Language is the dress of thought; and as the noblest mien or most graceful action would be degraded and obscured by a garb appropriated to the gross employments of rusticks or mechanics, so the most heroick sentiments will lose their efficacy