Literature is the thought of thinking Souls.

Literary Men are . . . a perpetual priesthood.

Beauty is but a flower,Which wrinkles will devour;Brightness falls from the air;Queens have died young and fair;Dust hath closed Helen's eye.I am sick, I must die;Lord have mercy on us. - Song in Time of Pestilence.

Some people talk in their sleep. Lecturers talk while other people sleep.

Yet ah! why should they know their fate?Since sorrow never comes too late,And happiness too swiftly flies.Thought would destroy their paradise.No more; where ignorance is bliss,'Tis folly to be wise. - Ode on a Distant Prospect of Eton College.

. . . A man of the world amongst men of letters, a man of letters amongst men of the world.