Nothing great was ever achieved without enthusiasm. For what is enthusiasm but the oblivion and swallowing-up of self in an object dearer than self?

...in consequence of the film of familiarity and selfish solicitude, we have eyes yet see not, ears that hear not, and hearts that neither feel nor understand.

Day after day, day after day, We stuck, nor breath nor motion; As idle as a painted ship Upon a painted ocean.

I wish our clever young poets would remember my homely definitions of prose and poetry; that is, prose = words in their best order; - poetry = the best words in the best order.

That agony returns; And till my ghastly tale is told, This heart within me burns.

The history of all the world tells us that immoral means will ever intercept good ends.

Never can true courage dwell with them, Who, playing tricks with conscience, dare not look At their own vices.