But who forgives the senior’s ceaseless verse, / Whose hairs grow hoary as his rhymes grow worse?
There’s not a joy the world can give like that it takes away
If I should meet thee After long years, How should I greet thee? – With silence and tears
Society is smoothed to that excess, that manners hardly differ more than dress
Like the measles, love is most dangerous when it comes late in life.
One of the pleasures of reading old letters is the knowledge that they need no answer
I stood in Venice, on the Bridge of Sighs; / A palace and a prison on each hand.
I only go out to get me a fresh appetite for being alone.
I have always laid it down as a maxim /and found it justified by experience /that a man and a woman make far better friendships than can exist between two of the same sex /but then with the condition that they never have made or are to make love to each other.
I would rather have a nod from an American, than a snuff-box from an emperor.
I’ve stood upon Achilles’ tomb, And heard Troy doubted: time will doubt of Rome
Out of chaos God made a world, and out of high passions comes a people.
But he, with first a start and then a wink, / Said, `There’s another star gone out, I think!’
All tragedies are finished by a death, All comedies are ended by a marriage
Are we aware of our obligations to a mob? It is the mob that labor in your fields and serve in your houses — that man your navy, and recruit your army — that have enabled you to defy the world, and can also defy you when neglect and calamity have driven them to despair....
As falls the dew on quenchless sands, blood only serves to wash ambition’s hands.
And, after all, what is a lie? ‘Tis but the truth in a masquerade
I have a notion that gamblers are as happy as most people, being always excited; women, wine, fame, the table, even ambition, sate now and then, but every turn of the card and cast of the dice keeps the gambler alive — besides one can game ten times longer than one can do any thing...
No ear can hear nor tongue can tell the tortures of the inward hell!
The Cardinal is at his wit’s end — it is true that he had not far to go.
I like a woman to talk or I am left with the suspicion that she is thinking.
Let simple Wordsworth chime his childish verse, / And brother Coleridge lull the babe at nurse.
Hereditary bondsmen! know ye not / Who would be free themselves must strike the blow?
Like music on the waters is they sweet voice to me.