There is in souls a sympathy with sounds: And as the mind is pitch'd the ear is pleased With melting airs, or martial, brisk or grave; Some chord in unison with what we hear Is touch'd within us, and the heart replies.
Folly ends where genuine hope begins.
Satan trembles when he sees the weakest saint upon their knees.
[My kitten] is dressed in a tortoise-shell suit, and I know you will delight in her.
War's a game, which, were their subjects wise, Kings would not play at.
Strength may wield the ponderous spade, May turn the clod, and wheel the compost home; But elegance, chief grace the garden shows, And most attractive, is the fair result Of thought, the creature of a polished mind.