Fly not yet; ’t is just the hour When pleasure, like the midnight flower That scorns the eye of vulgar light, Begins to bloom for sons of night And maids who love the moon.
When twilight dews are falling soft Upon the rosy sea, love, I watch the star whose beam so oft Has lighted me to thee, love.
The English writer, Charles Lamb, said one day: “I hate that man.” “But you don’t know him.” “Of course, I don’t,” said Lamb. “Do you think I could possibly hate a man I know?”
Ay, down to the dust with them, slaves as they are! From this hour let the blood in their dastardly veins, That shrunk at the first touch of Liberty’s war, Be wasted for tyrants, or stagnate in chains.
Man, while he loves, is never quite depraved.
There was a little man, and he had a little soul; And he said, Little Soul, let us try, try, try!
Do not fold, spindle or mutilate.
A clear fire, a clean hearth, and the rigour of the game.
Damn the age. I’ll write for antiquity.
Friend of my bosom, thou more than a brother, Why wert thou not born in my father’s dwelling?
To be sick is to enjoy monarchical prerogatives.
Oh, breathe not his name! let it sleep in the shade, Where cold and unhonour’d his relics are laid.
Since all the maids are good and lovable, from whence come the bad wives?
We do not go to the theatre like our ancestors, to escape from the pressure of reality, so much as to confirm our experience of it.
The light that lies In woman’s eyes.
When true hearts lie wither’d And fond ones are flown, Oh, who would inhabit This bleak world alone?
And the tear that we shed, though in secret it rolls, Shall long keep his memory green in our souls.
Oh call it by some better name, For friendship sounds too cold.
This world is all a fleeting show, For man’s illusion given The smiles of joy, the tears of woe, Deceitful shine, deceitful flow, Theres nothing true but Heaven.
Whose wit in the combat, as gentle as bright, Ne’er carried a heart-stain away on its blade.