A good book is the precious life-blood of a master spirit, embalmed and treasured up on purpose to a life beyond life.
A poet soaring in the high reason of his fancies, with his garland and singing robes about him.
As good almost kill a man as kill a good book: who kills a man kills a reasonable creature, God's image; but he who destroys a good book, kills reason itself, kills the image of God, as it were in the eye.
Attic tragedies of stateliest and most regal argument.
Beauty is nature's brag, and must be shown in courts, at feasts, and high solemnities, where most may wonder at the workmanship.
Beholding the bright countenance of truth in the quiet and still air of delightful studies.
Books are not absolutely dead things, but do contain a potency of life in them to be as active as that soul was whose progeny they are; nay they do preserve as in a vial the purest efficacy and extraction of that living intellect that bred them.
By this time, like one who had set out on his way by night, and travelled through a region of smooth or idle dreams, our history now arrives on the confines, where daylight and truth meet us with a clear dawn, representing to our view, though at a far distance, true colours and shapes.
Chaos umpire sits And by decision more embroils the fray by which he reigns: next him high arbiter Chance governs all.
Come to the sunset tree! The day is past and gone; The woodman's axe lies free, And the reaper's work is done.