He who indulges his sense in any excesses renders himself obnoxious to his own reason; and, to gratify the brute in him, displeases the man, and sets his two natures at variance.

O woman! in our hours of ease Uncertain, coy, and hard to please, And variable as the shade By the light quivering aspen made; When pain and anguish wring the brow, A ministering angel thou!

Great talent has always a little madness mixed up with it.

If a faultless poem could be produced, I am satisfied it would tire the critics themselves; and annoy the whole reading world with the spleen.

There never will exist anything permanently noble and excellent in the character which is a stranger to resolute self-denial.

Art thou a friend to Roderick?

A Christmas gambol oft could cheer The poor man's heart through half the year.