And much it grieved my heart to think What man has made of man.

Scorn not the sonnet. Critic, you have frowned, Mindless of its just honours; with this key Shakespeare unlocked his heart.

How is it that you live, and what is it you do?

Laying out grounds... may be considered as a liberal art, in some sort like poetry and painting.... it is to assist Nature in moving the affections... the affections of those who have the deepest perception of the beauty of Nature.

Type of the wise who soar but never roam, True to the kindred points of heaven and home.

A man he seems of cheerful yesterdays And confident tomorrows.

Worse than idle is compassion if it ends in tears and sighs.