Lived in his saddle, loved the chase, the course, And always, ere he mounted, kiss'd his horse.

A fretful temper will divide the closest knot that may be tied, by ceaseless sharp corrosion; a temper passionate and fierce may suddenly your joys disperse at one immense explosion.

Man disavows, and Deity disowns me: hell might afford my miseries a shelter; therefore hell keeps her ever-hungry mouths all bolted against me.

There is a pleasure in poetic pains / Which only poets know.

Man may dismiss compassion from his heart, but God never will.

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

Made poetry a mere mechanic art.