“Those who write ill, and they who ne'er durst write,Turn critics out of mere revenge and spite.”

“But far more numerous was the herd of such,Who think too little, and who talk too much.”

“Happy the man, and happy he alone, He who can call today his own: He who, secure within, can say, Tomorrow do thy worst, for I have lived today.”

“Errors, like straws, upon the surface flow; He who would search for pearls, must dive below.”

“Welcome, thou kind deceiver!Thou best of thieves: who, with an easy key,Dost open life, and, unperceived by us,Even steal us from ourselves.”

“The winds that never moderation knew,Afraid to blow too much, too faintly blew;Or out of breath with joy, could not enlarge Their straighten'd lungs or conscious of their charge.”

“Of no distemper, of no blast he died, But fell like autumn fruit that mellowed long — Even wondered at, because he dropped no sooner. Fate seemed to wind him up for fourscore years, Yet freshly ran he on ten winters more; Till like a clock worn out with eating time, The wheels of weary life at last stood still.”