Pernicious weed! whose scent the fair annoys, Unfriendly to society's chief joys: Thy worst effect is banishing for hours The sex whose presence civilizes ours.

Oh to have a lodge in some vast wilderness. Where rumors of oppression and deceit, of unsuccessful and successful wars may never reach me anymore.

There is in souls a sympathy with sounds.

O Winter, ruler of the inverted year!

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

Absence from whom we love is worse than death, and frustrates hope severer than despair.

The proud are ever most provoked by pride.