There is in souls a sympathy with sounds.

The art of poetry is to touch the passions, and its duty to lead them on the side of virtue.

Solitude, seeming a sanctuary, proves a grave; a sepulchre in which the living lie, where all good qualities grow sick and die

Reasoning at every step he treads, Man yet mistakes his way, Whilst meaner things, whom instinct leads, Are rarely known to stray.

Far happier are the dead methinks than they who look for death and fear it every day.

Pleasure admitted in undue degree, enslaves the will, nor leaves the judgment free.

The earth was made so various, that the mind Of desultory man, studious of change, And pleased with novelty, might be indulged.