For danger levels man and brute And all are fellows in their need.
Either be wholly slaves or wholly free.
Having mourned your sin, for outward Eden lost, find paradise within.
As poetry is the harmony of words, so music is that of notes.
Raw in the fields the rude militia swarms, Mouth without hands; maintained at vast expense, In peace a charge, in war a weak defence.
My love’s a noble madness.
Heaven be thanked, we live in such an age, When no man dies for love, but on the stage.
Jealousy’s a proof of love, But ’tis a weak and unavailing medicine; It puts out the disease and makes it show, But has no power to cure.
For your ignorance is the mother of your devotion to me.
Revenge, revenge, Timotheus cries, See the Furies arise!
Thus, while the mute creation downward bend Their sight, and to their earthly mother ten, Man looks aloft; and with erected eyes Beholds his own hereditary skies.
Who thinks all Science, as all Virtue, vain; Who counts Geometry and numbers Toys...
I trade both with the living and the dead, for the enrichment of our native language.
But wild Ambition loves to slide, not stand, And Fortune’s ice prefers to Virtue’s land.
She, though in full-blown flower of glorious beauty, Grows cold even in the summer of her age.
Learn to write well, or not to write at all.
A fiery soul, which, working out its way, Fretted the pygmy-body to decay, And o’er-inform’d the tenement of clay. A daring pilot in extremity; Pleas’d with the danger, when the waves went high He sought the storms.
Could swell the soul to rage, or kindle soft desire.
Our souls sit close and silently within, And their own web from their own entrails spin; And when eyes meet far off, our sense is such, That, spider-like, we feel the tenderest touch.
Bankrupt of life, yet prodigal of ease.