I am surrounded here by parsons and methodists, but as you will see, not infested with the mania.
The basis of your religion is injustice. The Son of God the pure, the immaculate, the innocent, is sacrificed for the guilty. This proves his heroism, but no more does away with man’s sin than a school boy’s volunteering to be flogged for another would exculpate a dunce from negligence.
And Mocha’s berry, from Arabia pure, In small fine china cups, came in at last. Gold cups of filigree, made to secure the hand from burning, underneath them place. Cloves, cinnamon and saffron, too, were boiled Up with the coffee, which, I think, they spoiled.
The premises are so delightfully extensive, that two people might live together without ever seeing, hearing or meeting.
Perhaps the early grave Which men weep over may be meant to save.
History – the devil’s scripture.
I’ve seen your stormy seas and stormy women, And pity lovers rather more than seamen.
I have seen a thousand graves opened, and always perceived that whatever was gone, the teeth and hair remained of those who had died with them. Is not this odd? They go the very first things in youth and yet last the longest in the dust.
No ear can hear nor tongue can tell the tortures of the inward hell!
The devil was the first democrat.
Oh, nature’s noblest gift, my grey goose quill, Slave of my thoughts, obedient to my will, Torn from the parent bird to form a pen, That mighty instrument of little men.
Pleasure’s a sin, and sometimes sin’s a pleasure.
Switzerland is a curst, selfish, swinish country of brutes, placed in the most romantic region of the world.
I have not loved the world, nor the world me.
He who grown aged in this world of woe, In deeds, not years, piercing the depths of life, So that no wonder waits him.
I cannot describe to you the despairing sensation of trying to do something for a man who seems incapable or unwilling to do anything further for himself.
But quiet to quick bosoms is a hell.
A sort of hostile transaction, very necessary to keep the world going, but by no means a sinecure to the parties concerned.
In commitment, we dash the hopes of a thousand potential selves.
Parting day Dies like the dolphin, whom each pang imbues With a new colour as it gasps away, The last still loveliest, till-’t is gone, and all is gray.