Shakespeare Is Not Our Poet, But The

Life And Death Appear More Certainly Ours Than Whatsoever Else; And Yet Hardly Can That Be Called Ours, Which Comes Without Our Knowledge, And Goes Without It.

We Are No Longer Happy So Soon As We Wish To Be Happier.

I Hate False Words, And Seek With Care, Difficulty, And Moroseness, Those That Fit The Thing.

The Very Beautiful Rarely Love At All; Those Precious Images Are Placed Above The Reach Of The Passions: Time Alone Is Permitted To Efface Them.

There Are Proud Men Of So Much Delicacy That It Almost Conceals Their Pride, And Perfectly Excuses It.