A soul without reflection, like a pile Without inhabitant, to ruin runs.
The weak have remedies, the wise have joys; superior wisdom is superior bliss.
Still seems it strange, that thou shouldst live forever? Is it less strange, that thou shouldst live at all? This is a miracle; and that no more.
Friendship's the wine of life: but friendship new... is neither strong nor pure.
We bleed, we tremble; we forget, we smile – The mind turns fool, before the cheek is dry.
The maid that loves goes out to sea upon a shattered plank, and puts her trust in miracles for safety.
Some for renown, on scraps of learning dote, And think they grow immortal as they quote.
An angel's arm can't snatch me from the grave; legions of angels can't confine me there.
There is something about poetry beyond prose logic, there is mystery in it, not to be explained but admired.
The clouds may drop down titles and estates, and wealth may seek us, but wisdom must be sought.
We are all born originals - why is it so many of us die copies.
Our birth is nothing but our death begun, As tapers waste the moment they take fire.
The future... seems to me no unified dream but a mince pie, long in the baking, never quite done.
Much learning shows how little mortals know; much wealth, how little wordlings enjoy.
Life is the desert, life the solitude, death joins us to the great majority.
One to destroy, is murder by the law; and gibbets keep the lifted hand in awe; to murder thousands, takes a specious name, 'War's glorious art', and gives immortal fame.