Rich with the spoils of time.

Behind the steps that Misery treads Approaching Comfort view: The hues of bliss more brightly glow Chastised by sabler tints of woe, And blended form, with artful strife, The strength and harmony of life.

Ruin seize thee, ruthless king! Confusion on thy banners wait! Though fann’d by Conquest’s crimson wing, They mock the air with idle state.

And truth severe, by fairy fiction drest.

Any fool may write a most valuable book by chance, if he will only tell us what he heard and saw with veracity.

Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.

As to posterity, I may ask what has it ever done to oblige me?

Ah, happy hills! ah, pleasing shade! Ah, fields beloved in vain! Where once my careless childhood stray’d, A stranger yet to pain! I feel the gales that from ye blow A momentary bliss bestow.

E’en from the tomb the voice of nature cries, E’en in our ashes live their wonted fires.

A fav’rite has no friend!

How low, how little are the proud, How indigent the great!

The language of the age is never the language of poetry, except among the French, whose verse, where the thought or image does not support it, differs in nothing from prose.

He gave to misery (all he had) a tear.

England, so long mistress of the sea, Where winds and waves confess her sovereignty, Her ancient triumphs yet on high shall bear And reign the sovereign of the conquered air.

Men will believe anything at all provided they are under no obligation to believe it.

The still small voice of gratitude.

‘Tis folly to be wise.

One principal characteristic of vice in the present age is the contempt of fame.

And weep the more, because I weep in vain.

What female heart can gold despise? What cat ‘s averse to fish?

From toil he wins his spirits light, From busy day the peaceful night; Rich, from the very want of wealth, In heaven’s best treasures, peace and health.

The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, The lowing herd winds slowly o’er the lea, The ploughman homeward plods his weary way, And leaves the world to darkness and to me.

Alas, regardless of their doom, the little victims play! No sense have they of ills to come, nor care beyond today.

Daughter of Jove, relentless power, Thou tamer of the human breast, Whose iron scourge and tort’ring hour The bad affright, afflict the best!

Too poor for a bribe, and too proud to importune, he had not the method of making a fortune.

If the best man’s faults were written on his forehead, he would draw his hat over his eyes.

Can storied urn, or animated bust Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? Can Honour’s voice provoke the silent dust, Or Flatt’ry soothe the dull cold ear of Death?

I shall be but a shrimp of an author.

Far from the madding crowd’s ignoble strife Their sober wishes never learn’d to stray; Along the cool sequester’d vale of life They kept the noiseless tenor of their way.

Hell is full of good intentions.

Visions of glory, spare my aching sight.

Poetry is thoughts that breathe, and words that burn.

The paths of glory lead but to the grave.

The time will come, when thou shalt lift thine eyes To watch a long-drawn battle in the skies. While aged peasants, too amazed for words, Stare at the flying fleets of wondrous birds.

Commerce changes the fate and genius of nations.

Youth smiles without any reason. It is one of its chiefest charms.

Full many a gem of purest ray serene The dark unfathom’d caves of ocean bear: Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, And waste its sweetness on the desert air.

Where ignorance is bliss, ‘Tis folly to be wise.