Heaven wills our happiness, allows our doom.
As night to stars, woe lustre gives to man.
The spider’s most attenuated thread Is cord, is cable, to man’s tender tie On earthly bliss; it breaks at every breeze.
Death! great proprietor of all! ’tis thine To tread out empire, and to quench the stars.
The blood will follow where the knife is driven, The flesh will quiver where the pincers tear.
When men once reach their autumn, sickly joys fall off apace, as yellow leaves from trees.
We bleed, we tremble; we forget, we smile – The mind turns fool, before the cheek is dry.
The clouds may drop down titles and estates, and wealth may seek us, but wisdom must be sought.
There is something about poetry beyond prose logic, there is mystery in it, not to be explained but admired.
Accept a miracle, instead of wit See two dull lines, with Stanhope’s pencil writ.
Thy purpose firm is equal to the deed: Who does the best his circumstance allows Does well, acts nobly; angels could no more.
Who knows if Shakespeare might not have thought less if he had read more?
Prayer ardent opens heaven.
It calls Devotion! genuine growth of night! Devotion! Daughter of Astronomy! An undevout astronomer is mad!
Of man’s miraculous mistakes, this bears The palm, “That all men are about to live.”
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.
Ah, how unjust to Nature and himself Is thoughtless, thankless, inconsistent man!
Tired nature’s sweet restorer, balmy sleep! He, like the world, his ready visit pays Where fortune smiles; the wretched he forsakes.
The soul of man was made to walk the skies.
The maid that loves goes out to sea upon a shattered plank, and puts her trust in miracles for safety.