Steady of heart and stout of hand.

True love's the gift which God has given To man alone beneath the heaven: It is not fantasy's hot fire, Whose wishes soon as granted fly; It liveth not in fierce desire.

What a strange scene if the surge of conversation could suddenly ebb like the tide, and show us the real state of people's minds.

Meat eaten without either mirth or music is ill of digestion.

Never was flattery lost on a poet's ear; a simple race, they waste their toil for the vain tribute of a smile.

There is a vulgar incredulity, which in historical matters, as well as in those of religion, finds it easier to doubt than to examine.

Land of my sires! what mortal hand Can e'er untie the filial band That knits me to thy rugged strand!