Men, I still think, ought to be weighed not counted.

Sir, I admit your general rule, That every poet is a fool, But you yourself may serve to show it, That every fool is not a poet.

Our quaint metaphysical opinions, in an hour of anguish, are like playthings by the bedside of a child deathly sick.

What comes from the heart goes to the heart

This world has angels all too few, and heaven is overflowing.

It cannot but be injurious to the human mind never to be called into effort: the habit of receiving pleasure without any exertion of thought, by the mere excitement of curiosity, and sensibility, may be justly ranked among the worst effects of habitual novel-reading.

The artist must imitate that which is within the thing, that which is active through form and figure, and discourses to us by symbols.