"The greatest part of men are but a rude multitude, and have no more sense of things than children."

"Hence, loathed Melancholy, Of Cerberus and blackest midnight born, In Stygian cave forlorn 'Mongst horrid shapes, and shrieks, and sights unholy!"

"For what more often than not is the cause of all our miseries, but the ill-matching of our desires, and the ill-governing of our affections?"

"Who can say that he who is not free is a man?"

"Yet not to earth are those bright luminaries lent for show, but to dispense their good."