Tax not the royal Saint with vain expense.

Rapine, avarice, expense, This is idolatry; and these we adore; Plain living and high thinking are no more.

I know not how to tell thee who I am. My name, dear saint, is hateful to myself, because it’s an enemy to thee.

The waves beside them danced; but they/ Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:/ A poet could not but be gay,/ In such a jocund company.

A poet who has not produced a good poem before he is twenty-five, we may conclude cannot, and never will do so.

Nuns fret not at their convent's narrow room;And hermits are contented with their cells.