Truth takes no account of centuries.

Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep! The river glideth at his own sweet will; Dear God! the very houses seem asleep; And all that mighty heart is lying still!

Books! tis a dull and endless strife: Come, hear the woodland linnet, How sweet his music! on my life, There's more of wisdom in it.

Thou unassuming common-place of Nature, with that homely face.

O dearer far than light and life are dear.

In modern business it is not the crook who is to be feared most, it is the honest man who doesn't know what he is doing.

The Poet, gentle creature as he is, Hath, like the Lover, his unruly times; His fits when he is neither sick nor well, Though no distress be near him but his own Unmanageable thoughts.