The lunatic, the lover, and the poet, are of imagination all compact.

Call me what instrument you will, though you can fret me, you cannot play upon me.

You great benefactors, sprinkle our society with thankfulness. For your own gifts, make yourselves praised.

It warms the very sickness in my heart, That I shall live and tell him to his teeth, "Thus diddest thou;"

Done to death by slanderous tongue

I am wrapped in dismal thinking.

Nature, as it grows again toward earth, is fashioned for the journey, dull and heavy.