“Nor for my peace will I go far, As wanderers do, that still do roam, But make my strengths, such as they are, Here in my bosom, and at home.”

Wine it is the milk of Venus, And the poet’s horse accounted: Ply it and you all are mounted.

True happiness consists not in the multitude of friends, but in the worth and choice.

If you be sick, your own thoughts make you sick

True melancholy breeds your perfect fine wit.

If men will impartially, and not asquint, look toward the offices and function of a poet, they will easily conclude to themselves the impossibility of any man’s being a good poet without first being a good man.

I would rather have a plain down-right wisdom than a foolish and affected eloquence.

The Devil is an Ass , I do acknowledge it.

That old bald cheater, Time.

He that is respectless in his courses oft sells his reputation at cheap market.

Forbear, you things That stand upon the pinnacles of state, To boast your slippery height! when you do fall, You dash yourselves in pieces, ne’er to rise: And he that lends you pity, is not wise.

Ready writing makes not good writing, but good writing brings on ready writing.

I know no disease of the soul but ignorance, a pernicious evil, the darkener of man’s life, the disturber of his reason, and common confounder of truth.

It is less dishonor to hear imperfectly than to speak imperfectly. The ears are excused; the understanding is not.

Truth is man’s proper good, and the only immortal thing was given to our mortality to use.

If all you boast of your great art be true; Sure, willing poverty lives most in you.

A good man will avoid the spot of any sin. The very aspersion is grievous, which makes him choose his way in his life, as he would in his journey.

The artist always has been and still is a being somewhat apart from the rest of humanity.

It still makes me giggle that I’m paid to act.

The nice thing about Farscape is that you got to be the good guy and still do the bad guy things.

I’m OK being the veteran, but I’m still just a kid.

I still like my antique clothes.

She was still there inside me now, just as she always was: a life put on hold, a memory I didn’t know how to handle.

The butterfly, a cabbage-white, (His honest idiocy of flight) Will never now, it is too late, Master the art of flying straight.

The butterfly, a cabbage-white, (His honest idiocy of flight) Will never now, it is too late, Master the art of flying straight.