Who would not give a trifle to prevent what he would give a thousand worlds to cure?
With such ardent eyes he wandered o'er me, and gazed with such intensity of love, sending his soul out to me in a look.
The soft whispers of the God in man.
There is in Poesy a decent pride, which well becomes her when she speaks to Prose, her younger sister.
Thought discovered is the more possessed.
To know the world, not love her, is thy point; she gives but little, nor that little long.
Virtue alone has majesty in death.
What is a miracle? ?'Tis a reproach, 'tis an implicit satire on mankind; And while it satisfies, it censures too.
When reason, like the skillful charioteer, can break the fiery passions to the bit, and, spite of their licentious sallies, keep the radiant tract of glory; passions, then, are aids and ornaments. Triumphant reason, firm in her seat, and swift in her career, enjoys their violence, and, smiling, thanks their formidable flame, for bright renown.
Who, for the poor renown of being smart, would leave a sting within a brother's heart?
With the talents of an angel a man may be a fool.
The spider's most attenuated thread is cord, is cable to man's tender tie on earthly bliss - it breaks at every breeze.
There is nothing of which men are more liberal than their good advice, be their stock of it ever so small; because it seems to carry in it an intimation of their own influence, importance, or worth.
Thought in the mind may come forth gold or dross; when coined in words, we know its real worth.
To leave a sting within a brother's heart.
Virtue alone outbuilds the pyramids: her monuments shall last, when Egypt's fall.
What is revenge but courage to call in our honor's debts, and wisdom to convert others' self-love into our own protection?
When the Law shows her teeth, but dares not bite.
Whose yesterdays look backwards with a smile.
With you own heart confer; and dread even there to find a flatterer.
The spirit walks of every day deceased.
There is something about poetry beyond prose logic, there is mystery in it, not to be explained but admired.
Thoughts shut up want air, and spoil like bales unopen'd to the sun.
To murder thousands takes a specious name.
Virtue, not rolling suns, the mind matures; that life is long which answers life's great end.