Nothing is more completely the child of art than a garden.

We are like the herb which flourisheth most when it is most trampled on.

I was born a Scotsman and a bare one. Therefore I was born to fight my way in the world.

Heaven know its time; the bullet has its billet

Call it not vain: they do not err Who say that when the poet dies Mute Nature mourns her worshipper, And celebrates his obsequies.

Affection can withstand very severe storms of vigor, but not a long polar frost of indifference.

Vengeance to God alone belongs; But, when I think of all my wrongs My blood is liquid flame!