Heart on her lips, and soul within her eyes, Soft as her clime, and sunny as her skies
I do detest everything which is not perfectly mutual.
So for a good old-gentlemanly vice, I think I must take up with avarice.
Well didst thou speak, Athena’s wisest son!/ All that we know is, nothing can be known.
The great art of life is sensation, to feel that we exist, even in pain.
There’s naught, no doubt, so much the spirit calms as rum and true religion
Society is now one polished horde, formed of two mighty tries, the Bores and Bored.
Of its own beauty is the mind diseased, / And fevers into false creation.
I die, – but first I have possessed, / And come what may, I have been blessed.
Nothing so difficult as a beginning In poesy, unless perhaps the end
The drying up a single tear has more of honest fame, than shedding seas of gore.
The Cardinal is at his wit’s end — it is true that he had not far to go.
And, after all, what is a lie? ‘Tis but the truth in a masquerade