All men feel a habitual gratitude, and something of an honorable bigotry, for the objects which have long continued to please them.
Heaven lies about us in our infancy.
The child is father of the man: And I could wish my days to be Bound each to each by natural piety.
A Briton even in love should be A subject, not a slave!
Worse than idle is compassion if it ends in tears and sighs.
Not in Utopia, -- subterranean fields, --Or some secreted island, Heaven knows whereBut in the very world, which is the worldOf all of us, -- the place where in the endWe find our happiness, or not at all