“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.”

“Rhyme is the rock on which thou art to wreck.”

“We first make our habits, then our habits make us.”

“Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thoughtAs doth eternity...”

“For you may palm upon us new for old:All, as they say, that glitters, is not gold.”

“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.”

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