Griefs assured are felt before they come.
Our vows are heard betimes! and Heaven takes care To grant, before we can conclude the prayer: Preventing angels met it half the way, And sent us back to praise, who came to pray.
Old age creeps on us ere we think it nigh.
Nothing to build, and all things to destroy.
Love is a passion Which kindles honor into noble acts.
What passion cannot music raise and quell!
But Shakespeare's magic could not copied be; Within that circle none durst walk but he.
Mere poets are sottish as mere drunkards are, who live in a continual mist, without seeing or judging anything clearly. A man should be learned in several sciences, and should have a reasonable, philosophical and in some measure a mathematical head, to be a complete and excellent poet.
The thought of being nothing after death is a burden insupportable to a virtuous man.
Great souls forgive not injuries till time has put their enemies within their power, that they may show forgiveness is their own.
For what can power give more than food and drink, To live at ease, and not be bound to think?
Luxurious kings are to their people lost, They live like drones, upon the public cost.
If thou dost still retain the same ill habits, the same follies, too, still thou art bound to vice, and still a slave.
Present joys are more to flesh and blood Than a dull prospect of a distant good.
Want is a bitter and a hateful good, Because its virtues are not understood; Yet many things, impossible to thought, Have been by need to full perfection brought. The daring of the soul proceeds from thence, Sharpness of wit, and active diligence; Prudence at once, and fortitude it gives; And, if in patience taken, mends our lives.
Some of our philosophizing divines have too much exalted the faculties of our souls, when they have maintained that by their force mankind has been able to find out God.
Death ends our woes, and the kind grave shuts up the mournful scene.
He trudged along unknowing what he sought, And whistled as he went, for want of thought.
I am reading Jonson's verses to the memory of Shakespeare; an insolent, sparing, and invidious panegyric.
The wretched have no friends.
It is sufficient to say, according to the proverb, that here is God's plenty.
I trade both with the living and the dead, for the enrichment of our native language.
Ev'n wit's a burthen, when it talks too long.
Criticism is now become mere hangman's work, and meddles only with the faults of authors ; nay, the critic is disgusted less with their absurdities than excellence ; and you cannot displease him more than in leaving him little room for his malice.
Virgil is so exact in every word, that none can be changed but for a worse; nor any one removed from its place, but the harmony will be altered. He pretends sometimes to trip; but it is only to make you think him in danger of a fall, when he is most secure.
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