The thought of being nothing after death is a burden insupportable to a virtuous man.

Pleasure never comes sincere to man; but lent by heaven upon hard usury.

Lucky men are favorites of Heaven.

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.

Virtue without success is a fair picture shown by an ill light; but lucky men are favorites of heaven; all own the chief, when fortune owns the cause.

It's a hard world, neighbors, if a man's oath must be his master.

Men's virtues I have commended as freely as I have taxed their crimes.

For danger levels man and brute And all are fellows in their need.

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.