“At home the hateful names of parties cease, And factious souls are wearied into peace.”

Truth is never to be expected from authors whose understanding is warped with enthusiasm.

Bold knaves thrive without one grain of sense, But good men starve for want of impudence.

Repartee is the soul of conversation.

Beware of the fury of the patient man.

Treason is greatest where trust is greatest.

Death in itself is nothing; but we fear to be we know not what, we know not where.

Silence in times of suffering is the best.

Anger will never disappear so long as thoughts of resentment are cherished in the mind. Anger will disappear just as soon as thoughts of resentment are forgotten.

War is the trade of kings.

Satire is a kind of poetry in which human vices are reprehended.

Ill habits gather unseen degrees, as brooks make rivers, rivers run to seas.

Kings fight for empires, madmen for applause.

Zeal, the blind conductor of the will.

Satire among the Romans, but not among the Greeks, was a bitter invective poem.

Errors like straws upon the surface flow, Who would search for pearls to be grateful for often must dive below.

A good conscience is a port which is landlocked on every side, where no winds can possibly invade. There a man may not only see his own image, but that of his Maker, clearly reflected from the undisturbed waters.

Like her name, some people are best left scrouged on the skin.

Some rhyme a neebor’s name to lash; Some rhyme (vain thought!) for needfu’ cash; Some rhyme to court the countra clash, An’ raise a din; For me, an aim I never fash; I rhyme for fun.

I wanted to know the name of every stone and flower and insect and bird and beast. I wanted to know where it got its color, where it got its life – but there was no one to tell me.

A poet’s work is to name the unnameable, to point at frauds, to take sides, start arguments, shape the world, and stop it going to sleep.

Once you start changing a name, you see, there’s no reason ever to stop. One always hears one that sounds better.

Tear me open and I will bleed in your name. My heart aches from your absence, but in the aching and breaking is where my art is born.

There’s not much I know about forgetting. By which I mean I can hear her name from a distance; and it still breathes cold in my chest.

This ‘missing you’ It begs for water; it cries your name.