No wild enthusiast could rest, till half the world like him was possessed.
How sweet, how passing sweet, is solitude! But grant me still a friend in my retreat, whom I may whisper, solitude is sweet.
Made poetry a mere mechanic art.
Far happier are the dead methinks than they who look for death and fear it every day.
Grief is itself a medicine.
What is there in the vale of lifeHalf so delightful as a wife;When friendship, love and peace combineTo stamp the marriage-bond divine?