Lukewarmness I account a sin, as great in love as in religion.
The Sunflow'r, thinking 'twas for him foul shame To nap by daylight, strove t' excuse the blame; It was not sleep that made him nod, he said, But too great weight and largeness of his head.
s a scene of changes, and to be constant in Nature were inconstancy.
But what is woman? Only one of nature's agreeable blunders.
Thus each extreme to equal danger tends, Plenty, as well as Want, can sep'rate friends.
As for being much known by sight, and pointed out, I cannot comprehend the honor that lies withal; whatsoever it be, every mountebank has it more than the best doctor.
There have been fewer friends on earth than kings.
The present is an eternal now.
Poets by Death are conquer'd but the wit Of poets triumphs over it.
"We may talk what we please," he cries in his enthusiasm for the oldest of the arts, "of lilies, and lions rampant, and spread eagles, in fields d'or or d'argent; but, if heraldry were guided by reason, a plough in a field arable would be the most noble and ancient arms."
This only grant me, that my means may lie, too low for envy, for contempt to high.
Who lets slip fortune, her shall never find: Occasion once past by, is bald behind.
Life for delays and doubts no time does give, None ever yet made haste enough to live.
Acquaintance I would have, but when it depends; not on number, but the choice of friends.
What shall I do to be for ever known, And make the age to come my own?
There is some help for all the defects of fortune; for, if a man cannot attain to the length of his wishes, he may have his remedy by cutting of them shorter.
It is a hard and nice subject for a man to speak of himself: it grates his own heart to say anything of disparagement, and the reader's ear to hear anything of praise from him.
Curs'd be that wretch (Death's factor sure) who brought Dire swords into the peaceful world, and taught Smiths (who before could only make The spade, the plough-share, and the rake) Arts, in most cruel wise Man's left to epitomize!
The present is all the ready money Fate can give.
All the world's bravery that delights our eyes is but thy several liveries.
Begin, be bold, and venture to be wise, He who defers this work from day to day, Does on a river's bank expecting stay, Till the whole stream, which stopped him, should be gone, That runs, and as it runs, for ever will run on.
Much will always wanting be To him who much desires.
The monster London laugh at me.
Ah! Wretched and too solitary he who loves not his own company.
Happy insect! what can be In happiness compared to thee? Fed with nourishment divine, The dewy morning's gentle wine! Nature waits upon thee still, And thy verdant cup does fill; 'Tis fill'd wherever thou dost tread, Nature's self's thy Ganymede.
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