Man is born passionate of body, but with an innate though secret tendency to the love of Good in his main-spring of Mind. But God help us all! It is at present a sad jar of atoms.
If we must have a tyrant, let him at least be a gentleman who has been bred to the business, and let us fall by the axe and not by the butcher’s cleaver.
I should be very willing to redress men wrongs, and rather check than punish crimes, had not Cervantes, in that all too true tale of Quixote, shown how all such efforts fail.
Tis strange,-but true; for truth is always strange; Stranger than fiction: if it could be told, How much would novels gain by the exchange! How differently the world would men behold!
The thorns which I have reap’d are of the tree I planted; they have torn me, and I bleed. I should have known what fruit would spring from such a seed.
She walks in beauty, like the night Of cloudless climes and starry skies; And all that’s best of dark and bright Meet in her aspect and her eyes...
In secret we met – In silence I grieve, That thy heart could forget, Thy spirit deceive. If I should meet thee After long years, How should I greet thee? – With silence and tears.
This is the age of oddities let loose.
I live not in myself, but I become Portion of that around me: and to me High mountains are a feeling, but the hum of human cities torture.
Are not the mountains, waves, and skies as much a part of me, as I of them?
You gave me the key to your heart, my love, then why did you make me knock?
What is the worst of woes that wait on age? What stamps the wrinkle deeper on the brow? To view each loved one blotted from life’s page, And be alone on earth, as I am now.
Who tracks the steps of glory to the grave?
Though sages may pour out their wisdom’s treasure, there is no sterner moralist than pleasure.
Prolonged endurance tames the bold.
They never fail who die in a great cause.
Let none think to fly the danger for soon or late love is his own avenger.
Society is now one polished horde, formed of two mighty tries, the Bores and Bored.
I have no consistency, except in politics; and that probably arises from my indifference to the subject altogether.
But what is Hope? Nothing but the paint on the face of Existence; the least touch of truth rubs it off, and then we see what a hollow-cheeked harlot we have got hold of.