Emotions and Feelings

Boswell: That, sir, was great fortitude of mind. Johnson: No, sir; stark insensibility.

How small, of all that human hearts endure, That part which laws or kings can cause or cure! Still to ourselves in every place consign’d, Our own felicity we make or find.

With these [Love, Patience, Faith] celestial Wisdom calms the mind, And makes the happiness she does not find.

“Enlarge my life with multitude of days!” In health, in sickness, thus the suppliant prays: Hides from himself his state, and shuns to know That life protracted is protracted woe.

Deign on the passing world to turn thine eyes, And pause a while from learning to be wise. There mark what ills the scholar’s life assail— Toil, envy, want, the patron, and the jail.

Declamation roar’d, while Passion slept.

Of all the griefs that harass the distrest, Sure the most bitter is a scornful jest.

Here Skugg lies snug As a bug in a rug.

Little strokes, Fell great oaks.

Do all the good you can, By all the means you can, In all the ways you can, In all the places you can, At all the times you can, To all the people you can, As long as ever you can.

See, the conquering hero comes! Sound the trumpet, beat the drums! 1

Whoever you are, behold your master, He is, or was, or has to be. 13

Religion blushing veils her sacred fires, And unawares Morality expires. Nor public flame, nor private, dares to shine; Nor human spark is left, nor glimpse divine! Lo! thy dread empire Chaos! is restor’d: Light dies before thy uncreating word; Thy hand, great Anarch! lets the curtain fall, And universal darkness buries all.

A wit with dunces, and a dunce with wits.

The Right Divine of Kings to govern wrong.

And proud his mistress’ orders to perform, Rides in the whirlwind and directs the storm.

A brain of feathers, and a heart of lead.

Next o’er his books his eyes began to roll, In pleasing memory of all he stole.

Poetic Justice, with her lifted scale, Where, in nice balance, truth with gold she weighs, And solid pudding against empty praise.

Whether thou choose Cervantes’ serious air, Or laugh and shake in Rabelais’ easy chair.

I am his Highness’ 8 dog at Kew; Pray tell me, sir, whose dog are you?

I cannot sleep a wink.

Satire’s my weapon, but I’m too discreet To run amuck, and tilt at all I meet.

Wit that can creep, and pride that licks the dust.