“A drop of ink may make a million think.”

“But words are things, and a small drop of ink,Falling, like dew, upon a thought producesThat which makes thousands, perhaps millions think.”

“But words are things, and a small drop of ink,      Falling like dew, upon a thought, produces That which makes thousands, perhaps millions, think;      ’T is strange, the shortest letter which man uses Instead of speech, may form a lasting link      Of ages; to what straits old Time reduces Frail man, when paper — even a rag like this, Survives himself, his tomb, and all that’s his.”

“Though sages may pour out their wisdom's treasure, there is no sterner moralist then Pleasure.”

“T is sweet to win, no matter how, one's laurels,By blood or ink; 't is sweet to put an endTo strife; 't is sometimes sweet to have our quarrels,Particularly with a tiresome friend:Sweet is old wine in bottles, ale in barrels;Dear is the helpless creature we defendAgainst the world; and dear the schoolboy spotWe ne'er forget, though there we are forgot.But sweeter still than this, than these, than all,Is first and passionate Love—it stands alone,Like Adam's recollection of his fall;The Tree of Knowledge has been plucked—all 's known—And Life yields nothing further to recallWorthy of this ambrosial sin, so shown,No doubt in fable, as the unforgivenFire which Prometheus filched for us from Heaven.”

“You gave me the key to your heart, my love, then why did you make me knock?”

“Oh pleasure, you're indeed a pleasant thing, / Although one must be damned for you no doubt. / I make a resolution every spring / Of reformation, ere the year run out.”