Music has charms to sooth a savage breast, to soften rocks, or bend a knotted oak.
Love's but the frailty of the mind, When 'tis not with ambition joined; A sickly flame, which if not fed expires; And feeding, wastes in self-consuming fires.
I know that’s a secret, for it’s whispered everywhere.
It is the business of a comic poet to paint the vices and follies of human kind.
I am a fool, I know it; and yet, Heaven help me, I'm poor enough to be a wit.
There is in true Beauty, as in Courage, somewhat which narrow Souls cannot dare to admire.