He was the man who of all modern, and perhaps ancient poets, had the largest and most comprehensive soul. . . . He was naturally learn'd; he needed not the spectacles of books to read Nature; he looked inwards, and found her there. . . . He is many times flat, insipid; his comic wit degenerating in to clenches, his serious swelling into bombast. But he is always great, when some occasion is presented to him.
Softly sweet, in Lydian measures, Soon he sooth'd his soul to pleasures. War, he sung, is toil and trouble; Honour but an empty bubble; Never ending, still beginning, Fighting still, and still destroying. If all the world be worth the winning, Think, oh think it worth enjoying: Lovely Thais sits beside thee, Take the good the gods provide thee.
She, though in full-blown flower of glorious beauty, Grows cold even in the summer of her age.
But wild Ambition loves to slide, not stand, And Fortune's ice prefers to Virtue's land.
Bankrupt of life, yet prodigal of ease.
Jealousy is the jaundice of the soul.
Men are but children of a larger growth.
For granting we have sinned, and that the offence Of man is made against Omnipotence, Some price that bears proportion must be paid, And infinite with infinite be weighed.
If you are for a merry jaunt, I will try, for once, who can foot it farthest.
Rich the treasure, Sweet the pleasure,- Sweet is pleasure after pain.
One of the greatest, most noble, and most sublime poems which either this age or nation has produced.
Restless at home, and ever prone to range.
Or hast thou known the world so long in vain?
And nobler is a limited command, Given by the love of all your native land, Than a successive title, long and dark, Drawn from the mouldy rolls of Noah's Ark.
Successful crimes alone are justified.
For thee, sweet month; the groves green liveries wear. If not the first, the fairest of the year; For thee the Graces lead the dancing hours, And Nature's ready pencil paints the flowers. When thy short reign is past, the feverish sun The sultry tropic fears, and moves more slowly on.
He wants worth who dares not praise a foe.
Inspire the Vocal Brass, Inspire; The World is past its Infant Age: Arms and Honour, Arms and Honour, Set the Martial Mind on Fire, And kindle Manly Rage.
Genius must be born, it can't be taught.
When beauty fires the blood, how love exalts the mind!
My right eye itches, some good luck is near.
Repentance is the virtue of weak minds.
So poetry, which is in Oxford made An art, in London only is a trade.
Music is inarticulate poesy.
The Jews, a headstrong, moody, murmuring race.
Follow AzQuotes on Facebook, Twitter and Google+. Every day we present the best quotes! Improve yourself, find your inspiration, share with friends
or simply: