It is sweet to dance to violins When love and life are fair: To dance to flutes, to dance to lutes Is delicate and rare: But it is not sweet with nimble feet To dance upon the air!
Lean on principles, one day they’ll end up giving way.
Well I won’t argue about the matter. You always want to argue about things. That is exactly what things were originally made for.
All sins, except a sin against itself, Love should forgive. All lives, save loveless lives, true Love should pardon.
How does one cure the soul? Through the senses.
I have been right, Basil, haven’t I, to take my love out of poetry, and to find my wife in Shakespeare’s plays? Lips that Shakespeare taught to speak have whispered their secret in my ear. I have had the arms of Rosalind around me, and kissed Juliet on the mouth.
As for omens, there is no such thing as an omen. Destiny does not send us heralds. She is too wise or too cruel for that.
If one were to live his life fully and completely were to give form to every feeling, expression to every thought, reality to every dream.
Don’t squander the gold of your days, listening to the tedious, trying to improve the hopeless failure, or giving away your life to the ignorant, the common, and the vulgar.
A man who marries without knowing Bunbury has a very tedious time of it.
Do you smoke? Well, yes, I must admit I smoke. I’m glad to hear of it. A man should always have an occupation of some kind.
I love hearing my relations abused. It is the only thing that makes me put up with them at all. Relations are simply a tedious pack of people, who haven’t got the remotest knowledge of how to live nor the smallest instinct about when to die.
Gwendolen, it is a terrible thing for a man to find out suddenly that all his life he has been speaking nothing but the truth. Can you forgive me?
Either this wallpaper goes, or I do.
It was not intended as a compliment. It was a confession. Now that I have made it, something seems to have gone out of me. Perhaps one should never put one’s worship into words.
She was a curious woman, whose dresses always looked as if they had been designed in a rage and put on in a tempest. She was usually in love with somebody, and, as her passion was never returned, she had kept all her illusions. She tried to look picturesque, but only succeeded in being untidy.
Then I feel, Harry, that I have given away my whole soul to someone who treats it as if it were a flower to put in his coat, a bit of decoration to charm his vanity, an ornament for a summer’s day.
But then one regrets the loss even of one’s worst habits. Perhaps one regrets them the most. They are such an essential part of one’s personality.
Can they feel, I wonder, those white silent people we call the dead?
I had buried my romance in a bed of asphodel.