I confess I love littleness almost in all things. A little convenient estate, a little cheerful house, a little company, and a little feast ... 
Acquaintance I would have, but when it depends; not on number, but the choice of friends. 
Build yourself a book-nest to forget the world without. 
Books should, not Business, entertain the Light;And Sleep, as undisturb'd as Death, the Night.
Hope is the most hopeless thing of all. 
All the world's bravery that delights our eyes is but thy several liveries. 
Ah! Wretched and too solitary he who loves not his own company. 
Nay, in death's hand, the grape-stone provesAs strong as thunder is in Jove's.
Thus each extreme to equal danger tends, Plenty, as well as Want, can sep'rate friends. 
When Israel was from bondage led,Led by the Almighty's handFrom out of foreign land,The great sea beheld and fled. 
This only grant me, that my means may lie too low for envy, for contempt too high. 
The present is all the ready money Fate can give. 
Hope! of all ills that men endure, the only cheap and universal cure. 
Much will always wanting beTo him who much desires.
But what is woman? Only one of nature's agreeable blunders. 
Come, my best friends, my best books, and lead me on. 
What shall I do to be for ever known, And make the age to come my own? 
Enjoy the present hour, Be thankful for the past, And neither fear nor wish Th' approaches of the last. 
The monster London laugh at me. 
Stones of small worth may lie unseen by day, But night itself does the rich gem betray. 
Of all ills that one endures, hope is a cheap and universal cure. 
The present is an eternal now. 
The getting out of doors is the greatest part of the journey. 
Unbind the charms that in slight fables lie and teach that truth is truest poesy. 
Ere I descend to th' grave,May I a small house and large garden have;
And a few friends, and many books.
What a brave privilege is it to be free from all contentions, from all envying or being envied, from receiving or paying all kinds of ceremonies! 
His time's forever, everywhere his place. 
Poets by Death are conquer'd but the wit Of poets triumphs over it. 
All this world's noise appears to me a dull, ill-acted comedy! 
Nothing is to come, and nothing past: But an eternal now, does always last. 