There is pleasure in the pathless woods

Yet Time, who changes all, had altered him in soul and aspect as in age: Years steal Fire from the mind as vigor from the limb; And Life’s enchanted cup but sparkles near the brim

Tis very certain the desire of life prolongs it.

Heart on her lips, and soul within her eyes, Soft as her clime, and sunny as her skies

Where the virgins are soft as the roses they twine, / And all, save the spirit of man, is divine.

He who is only just is cruel. Who on earth could live were all judged justly.

When Bishop Berkeley said `there was no matter’, / And proved it – ’twas no matter what he said.

I tell thee, be not rash; a golden bridge / Is for a flying enemy.

Of all the barbarous middle ages, that which is most barbarous is the middle age of man! it is – I really scarce know what; but when we hover between fool and sage, and don’t...

‘Tis very certain the desire of life prolongs it.

Sweet is revenge – especially to women.

Physicians mend or end us, Secundum artem; but although we sneer – In health – when ill we call them to attend us, Without the least propensity to jeer

To fly from, need not be to hate mankind

Tis pleasant, sure, to see one’s name in print; A book’s a book, although there’s nothing’ in ‘t

This is the patent age of new inventions for killing bodies, and for saving souls. All propagated with the best intentions.

Posterity will never survey a nobler grave than this: here lie the bones of Castlereagh: stop, traveler, and piss.

By headless Charles see heartless Henry lies.

Adversity is the first path to truth; He who hath proved war, storm, or woman’s rage, Whether his winters be eighteen or eighty, Has won the experience which is deemed so weighty

Her great merit is finding out mine — there is nothing so amiable as discernment.

Such hath it been – shall be – beneath the sun the many still must labor for the one

She had consented to create again / That Adam, called `the happiest of men’.

The poor dog, in life the firmest friend. The first to welcome, foremost to defend.

I am sure of nothing so little as my own intentions.

Whenever I meet with anything agreeable in this world it surprises me so much / and pleases me so much (when my passions are not interested in one way or the other) that I go...

Hatred is the madness of the heart

Be warm, but pure; be amorous, but be chaste.

The Cincinnatus of the West, / Whom envy dared not hate, / Bequeathed the name of Washington, / To make man blush there was but one!

If I should meet thee After long years, How should I greet thee? – With silence and tears

Like the measles, love is most dangerous when it comes late in life.

The dew of compassion is a tear.

Man, being reasonable, must get drunk; the best of life is but intoxication.

I loathe that low vice curiosity

Nor be, what man should ever be, / The friend of Beauty in distress?

Sighing that Nature formed but one such man, and broke the die.

Truth is always strange, stranger than fiction.

What is fame? The advantage of being known by people of whom you yourself know nothing, and for whom you care as little.

He makes a solitude, and calls it – peace

All tragedies are finished by a death, All comedies are ended by a marriage

America is a model of force and freedom and moderation – with all the coarseness and rudeness of its people.

Friendship may, and often does, grow into love, but love never subsides into friendship.

To fly from, need not be to hate, mankind: / All are not fit with them to stir and toil, / Nor is it discontent to keep the mind / Deep in its fountain.

Though sages may pour out their wisdom’s treasure, There is no sterner moralist than Pleasure

War’s a brain spattering windpipe splitting art.

Men are the sport of circumstances when it seems circumstances are the sport of men.

I thought it would appear / That there had been a lady in the case.

Not to admire is all the art I know.

The reading or non-reading a book will never keep down a single petticoat.

The would-be wits and can’t-be gentlemen, I leave them to their daily “”tea is ready,”” Smug coterie and literary lady

O Gold! I still prefer thee unto paper, which makes bank credit like a bark of vapor.

The isles of Greece, the isles of Greece! / Where burning Sappho loved and sung, / Where grew the arts of war and peace, / Where Delos rose, and Phoebus sprung! / Eternal summer gilds...