If I am fool, it is, at least, a doubting one; and I envy no one the certainty of his self-approved wisdom. - Lord Byron

The stars are forth, the moon above the tops Of the snow-shining mountains. Beautiful! I linger yet with Nature, for the Night Hath been to me a more familiar face Than that of man; and in her starry shade Of dim and solitary loveliness, I learn'd the language of another world.

Thou shalt believe in Milton, Dryden, Pope;
Thou shalt not set up Wordsworth, Coleridge, Southey;
Because the first is crazed beyond all hope,
The second drunk, the third so quaint and mouthy.

The World, which at the worst’s a glorious blunder — If it be Chance; or if it be according
To the old Text, still better: — lest it should
Turn out so, we’ll say nothing ’gainst the wording,
As several people think such hazards rude.
They’re right; our days are too brief for affording
Space to dispute what no one ever could
Decide, and every body one day will
Know very clearly — or at least lie still.