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...and These Vicissitudes Come Best In Youth; For When They Happen At A Riper Age, People Are Apt To Blame The Fates, Forsooth, And Wonder Providence Is Not More Sage. 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 Experience Which Is Deem'd So Weighty.

-Lord Byron

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...and These Vicissitudes Come

Lord Byron

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...and These Vicissitudes Come Best In Youth; For When They Happen At A Riper Age, People Are Apt To Blame The Fates, Forsooth, And Wonder Providence Is Not More Sage. 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 Experience Which Is Deem'd So Weighty.

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I Deny Nothing, But Doubt Everything.

Jealousy Dislikes The World To Know It.

Then Stirs The Feeling Infinite, So Felt In Solitude, Where We Are Least Alone.

We Of The Craft Are All Crazy.

O Thou Beautiful And Unimaginable Ether! And Ye Multiplying Masses Of Increased And Still Increasing Lights! What Are Ye? What Is This Blue Wilderness Of Interminable Air, Where Ye Roll Along, As I Have Seen The Leaves Along The Limpid Streams Of Eden? Is Your Course Measur'd For Ye? Or Do Ye Sweep On In Your Unbounded Revelry Through An Aerial Universe Of Endless Expansion,--at Which My Soul Aches To Think,-- Intoxicated With Eternity.

My Altars Are The Mountains And The Ocean.

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.

We Have Fools In All Sects, And Impostors In Most; Why Should I Believe Mysteries No One Can Understand, Because Written By Men Who Chose To Mistake Madness For Inspiration And Style Themselves Evangelicals?

Egeria! Sweet Creation Of Some Heart Which Found No Mortal Resting-place So Fair As Thine Ideal Breast.

Talent May Be In Time Forgiven, But Genius Never

Till Taught By Pain, Men Know Not Water's Worth.

If A Man Proves Too Clearly And Convincingly To Himself...that A Tiger Is An Optical Illusion--well, He Will Find Out He Is Wrong. The Tiger Will Himself Intervene In The Discussion, In A Manner Which Will Be In Every Sense Conclusive.

Optical Illusions

Books, Manuals, Directives, Regulations. The Geometries That Circumscribe Your Working Life Draw Norrower And Norrower Until Nothing Fits Inside Them Anymore.

But I Hate Things All Fiction... There Should Always Be Some Foundation Of Fact For The Most Airy Fabric - And Pure Invention Is But The Talent Of A Liar.

I See Before Me The Gladiator Lie.

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!

My Hair Is Grey, But Not With Years, Nor Grew It White In A Single Night, As Men's Have Grown From Sudden Fears.

But Stories Somehow Lengthen When Begun.

A Bargain Is In Its Very Essence A Hostile Transaction Do Not All Men Try To Abate The Price Of All They Buy? I Contend That A Bargain Even Between Brethren Is A Declaration Of War.

Sighing That Nature Formed But One Such Man, And Broke The Die.

Yet Still There Whispers The Small Voice Within, Heard Through Gain's Silence, And O'er Glory's Din; Whatever Creed Be Taught Or Land Be Trod, Man's Conscience Is The Oracle Of God.

Sleep Hath Its Own World, And The Wide Realm Of Wild Reality.

Keep Thy Smooth Words And Juggling Homilies For Those Who Know Thee Not.

The Fact Is That My Wife If She Had Common Sense Would Have More Power Over Me Than Any Other Whatsoever, For My Heart Always Alights Upon The Nearest Perch.

History, With All Her Volumes Vast, Hath But One Page.

If I Could Always Read, I Should Never Feel The Want Of Company.

O Gold! I Still Prefer Thee Unto Paper, Which Makes Bank Credit Like A Bark Of Vapour.

This Quiet Sail Is As A Noiseless Wing To Waft Me From Distraction.

For The Angel Of Death Spread His Wings On The Blast, And Breathed In The Face Of The Foe As He Passed; And The Eyes Of The Sleepers Waxed Deadly And Chill, And Their Hearts But Once Heaved, And For Ever Grew Still!

Divine In Hookas, Glorious In A Pipe When Tipp'd With Amber, Mellow, Rich, And Ripe;... Yet Thy True Lovers More Admire By Far Thy Naked Beauties - Give Me A Cigar!

Roll On, Deep And Dark Blue Ocean, Roll. Ten Thousand Fleets Sweep Over Thee In Vain. Man Marks The Earth With Ruin, But His Control Stops With The Shore.

Think You, If Laura Had Been Petrarch's Wife, He Would Have Written Sonnets All His Life?.

Man Is In Part Divine, A Troubled Stream From A Pure Source.

And What Is Writ Is Writ - / Would It Were Worthier!

Glory, Like The Phoenix 'midst Her Fires, Exhales Her Odours, Blazes, And Expires.

Always Laugh When You Can; It Is Cheap Medicine. Merriment Is A Philosophy Not Well Understood. It Is The Sunny Side Of Existence.

I Am No Platonist, I Am Nothing At All; But I Would Sooner Be A Paulician, Manichean, Spinozist, Gentile, Pyrrhonian, Zoroastrian, Than One Of The Seventy-two Villainous Sects Who Are Tearing Each Other To Pieces For The Love Of The Lord And Hatred Of Each Other.

One Of The Pleasures Of Reading Old Letters Is The Knowledge That They Need No Answer.

Egypt! From Whose All Dateless Tombs Arose Forgotten Pharaohs From Their Long Repose, And Shook Within Their Pyramids To Hear A New Cambyses Thundering In Their Ear; While The Dark Shades Of Forty Ages Stood Like Startled Giants By Nile's Famous Flood.

A Legal Broom's A Moral Chimney-sweeper, And That's The Reason He Himself's So Dirty

Here's A Sigh To Those Who Love Me,and A Smile To Those Who Hate;and, Whatever Sky's Above Me,here's A Heart For Every Fate.

I Cannot Help Thinking That The Menace Of Hell Makes As Many Devils As The Severe Penal Codes Of Inhuman Humanity Make Villains.

In General I Do Not Draw Well With Literary Men -- Not That I Dislike Them But I Never Know What To Say To Them After I Have Praised Their Last Publication.

What Exile From Himself Can Flee? To Zones, Though More And More Remote, Still, Still Pursues, Where'er I Be, The Blight Of Life--the Demon Thought.

Oh That The Desert Were My Dwelling-place, With One Fair Spirit For My Minister

I Have A Great Mind To Believe In Christianity For The Mere Pleasure Of Fancying I May Be Damned.

The Place Is Very Well And Quiet And The Children Only Scream In A Low Voice.

I Have Seen A Thousand Graves Opened, And Always Perceived That Whatever Was Gone, The Teeth And Hair Remained Of Those Who Had Died With Them. Is Not This Odd? They Go The Very First Things In Youth And Yet Last The Longest In The Dust.

The Great Art Of Life Is Sensation, To Feel That We Exist, Even In Pain.

He Who Grown Aged In This World Of Woe, In Deeds, Not Years, Piercing The Depths Of Life, So That No Wonder Waits Him.

As Winds Come Whispering Lightly From The West, Kissing, Not Ruffling, The Blue Deep's Serene.

Better To Sink Beneath The Shock Than Moulder Piecemeal On The Rock!

No Hand Can Make The Clock Strike For Me The Hours That Are Passed.

The Mind Can Make Substance, And People Planets Of Its Own With Beings Brighter Than Have Been, And Give A Breath To Forms Which Can Outlive All Flesh.

'tis Pleasant, Sure, To See One's Name In Print. A Book's A Book, Although There's Nothing In 't.

From The Mingled Strength Of Shade And Light A New Creation Rises To My Sight, Such Heav'nly Figures From His Pencil Flow, So Warm With Light His Blended Colors Glow. . . . . The Glowing Portraits, Fresh From Life, That Bring Home To Our Hearts The Truth From Which They Spring.

As Soon Seek Roses In December, Ice In June, Hope Constancy In Wind, Or Corn In Chaff Believe A Woman Or An Epitaph Or Any Other Thing That’s False Before You Trust In Critics.

A Pretty Woman Is A Welcome Guest.

Men Think Highly Of Those Who Rise Rapidly In The World; Whereas Nothing Rises Quicker Than Dust, Straw, And Feathers.

America Is A Model Of Force And Freedom And Moderation - With All The Coarseness And Rudeness Of Its People.

Switzerland Is A Curst, Selfish, Swinish Country Of Brutes, Placed In The Most Romantic Region Of The World.

And Wrinkles, The Damned Democrats, Won't Flatter.

Brisk Confidence Still Best With Woman Copes: Pique Her And Soothe In Turn-soon Passion Crowns Thy Hopes.

With Flowing Tail And Flying Mane, Wide Nostrils Never Stretched By Pain, Mouth Bloodless To Bit Or Rein, And Feet That Iron Never Shod, And Flanks Unscar'd By Spur Or Rod, A Thousand Horses - The Wild - The Free - Like Waves That Follow O'er The Sea, Came Thickly Thundering On.

Who Falls From All He Knows Of Bliss, Cares Little Into What Abyss.

A Timid Mind Is Apt To Mistake Every Scratch For A Mortal Wound.

Of All Tales 'tis The Saddest--and More Sad, Because It Makes Us Smile.

Cervantes Smiled Spain's Chivalry Away.

You Have To Have A Passion For Your Work. How Can We Expect People To Be Passionate If You, As Their Coach, Does Not Have A Passion? Coaching Has To Be Something That Gives You Passion And Energy.

It Is When We Think We Lead That We Are Most Led.

For The Night Shows Stars And Women In A Better Light.

'twas Strange That One So Young Should Thus Concern His Brain About The Action Of The Sky; If You Think 'twas Philosophy That This Did, I Can't Help Thinking Puberty Assisted.

The Drying Up A Single Tear Has More, Of Honest Fame, Than Shedding Seas Of Gore.

Thy Decay's Still Impregnate With Divinity.

Romances I Ne'er Read Like Those I Have Seen.

And Mocha's Berry, From Arabia Pure, In Small Fine China Cups, Came In At Last. Gold Cups Of Filigree, Made To Secure The Hand From Burning, Underneath Them Place. Cloves, Cinnamon And Saffron, Too, Were Boiled Up With The Coffee, Which, I Think, They Spoiled.

Twas Twilight, And The Sunless Day Went Down Over The Waste Of Waters; Like A Veil, Which, If Withdrawn, Would But Disclose The Frown Of One Whose Hate Is Mask'd But To Assail.

I Really Cannot Know Whether I Am Or Am Not The Genius You Are Pleased To Call Me, But I Am Very Willing To Put Up With The Mistake, If It Be One.

The Dew Of Compassion Is A Tear.

Bologna Is Celebrated For Producing Popes, Painters, And Sausage.

The Best Prophet Of The Future Is The Past.

Here Lies Interred In The Eternity Of The Past, From Whence There Is No Resurrection For The Days - Whatever There May Be For The Dust - The Thirty-third Year Of An Ill-spent Life, Which, After A Lingering Disease Of Many Months Sank Into A Lethargy, And Expired, January 22d, 1821, A.d. Leaving A Successor Inconsolable For The Very Loss Which Occasioned Its Existence.

There Is Something Pagan In Me That I Cannot Shake Off. In Short, I Deny Nothing, But Doubt Everything.

Tis Sweet To Listen As The Night Winds Creep From Leaf To Leaf.

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.

Self-love For Ever Creeps Out, Like A Snake, To Sting Anything Which Happens To Stumble Upon It.

Tis Said That Persons Living On Annuities Are Longer Lived Than Others.

In Hope To Merit Heaven By Making Earth A Hell.

O Ye! Who Teach The Ingenious Youth Of Nations, Holland, France, England, Germany Or Spain, I Pray Ye Flog Them Upon All Occasions, It Mends Their Morals, Never Mind The Pain.

For Pleasures Past I Do Not Grieve, Nor Perils Gathering Near; My Greatest Grief Is That I Leave Nothing That Claims A Tear.

Tis Not On Youth's Smooth Cheek The Blush Alone, Which Fades So Fast, But The Tender Bloom Of Heart Is Gone, Ere Youth Itself Be Past.

Constancy... That Small Change Of Love, Which People Exact So Rigidly, Receive In Such Counterfeit Coin, And Repay In Baser Metal.

Religion-freedom-vengeance-what You Will, A Word's Enough To Raise Mankind To Kill.

I Cannot Conceive Why People Will Always Mix Up My Own Character And Opinions With Those Of The Imaginary Beings Which, As A Poet, I Have The Right And Liberty To Draw.

I Have Not Loved The World, Nor The World Me; I Have Not Flattered Its Rank Breath, Nor Bowed To Its Idolatries A Patient Knee, Nor Coined My Cheek To Smiles,-nor Cried Aloud In Worship Of An Echo.

I Love The Language, It Sounds As If It Should Be Writ On Satin With Syllables Which Breathe Of The Sweet South

Truth Is A Gem That Is Found At A Great Depth; Whilst On The Surface Of The World All Things Are Weighed By The False Scale Of Custom.

Kill A Man's Family, And He May Brook It, But Keep Your Hands Out Of His Breeches' Pocket.

Like To The Apples On The Dead Sea's Shore, All Ashes To The Taste.

The Lapse Of Ages Changes All Things - Time, Language, The Earth, The Bounds Of The Sea, The Stars Of The Sky, And Every Thing About, Around, And Underneath Man, Except Man Himself.

All Tragedies Are Finished By A Death, All Comedies Are Ended By A Marriage.

To Be Perfectly Original One Should Think Much And Read Little, And This Is Impossible, For One Must Have Read Before One Has Learnt To Think.

What Want These Outlaws Conquerors Should Have But History's Purchased Page To Call Them Great?

She Was Like Me In Lineaments-- Her Eyes Her Hair, Her Features, All, To The Very Tone Even Of Her Voice, They Said Were Like To Mine; But Soften'd All, And Temper'd Into Beauty; She Had The Same Lone Thoughts And Wanderings, The Quest Of Hidden Knowledge, And A Mind To Comprehend The Universe: Nor These Alone, But With Them Gentler Powers Than Mine, Pity, And Smiles, And Tears-- Which I Had Not; And Tenderness-- But That I Had For Her; Humility-- And That I Never Had. Her Faults Were Mine-- Her Virtues Were Her Own-- I Loved Her, And Destroy'd Her!

Adversity Is The First Path To Truth.

Tyranny Is Far The Worst Of Treasons. Dost Thou Deem None Rebels Except Subjects? The Prince Who Neglects Or Violates His Trust Is More A Brigand Than The Robber-chief.

You Gave Me The Key To Your Heart, My Love, Then Why Did You Make Me Knock?

My Great Comfort Is, That The Temporary Celebrity I Have Wrung From The World Has Been In The Very Teeth Of All Opinions And Prejudices. I Have Flattered No Ruling Powers; I Have Never Concealed A Single Thought That Tempted Me.

As Falls The Dew On Quenchless Sands, Blood Only Serves To Wash Ambition's Hands.

Though The Day Of My Destiny 's Over, And The Star Of My Fate Hath Declined, Thy Soft Heart Refused To Discover The Faults Which So Many Could Find.

It Is Not For Minds Like Ours To Give Or To Receive Flatter; Yet The Praises Of Sincerity Have Ever Been Permitted To The Voice Of Friendship

Ancient Of Days! August Athena! Where, Where Are Thy Men Of Might? Thy Grand In Soul? Gone--glimmering Through The Dream Of Things That Were; First In The Race That Led To Glory's Goal, They Won, And Pass'd Away--is This The Whole?

The World Is A Bundle Of Hay, Mankind Are The Asses That Pull, Each Tugs In A Different Way And The Greatest Of All Is John Bull!

May Moorland Weavers Boast Pindaric Skill, And Tailors' Lays Be Longer Than Their Bill! While Punctual Beaux Reward The Grateful Notes, And Pay For Poems--when They Pay For Coats.

When Age Chills The Blood, When Our Pleasures Are Past - For Years Fleet Away With The Wings Of The Dove - The Dearest Remembrance Will Still Be The Last, Our Sweetest Memorial The First Kiss Of Love.

When People Say, "i've Told You Fifty Times," They Mean To Scold, And Very Often Do; When Poets Say, "i've Written Fifty Rhymes," They Make You Dread That They'll Recite Them Too; In Gangs Of Fifty, Thieves Commit Their Crimes; At Fifty Love For Love Is Rare, 't Is True, But Then, No Doubt, It Equally As True Is, A Good Deal May Be Bought For Fifty Louis.

Fare Thee Well, And If For Ever Still For Ever Fare Thee Well.

It Is True From Early Habit, One Must Make Love Mechanically As One Swims; I Was Once Very Fond Of Both, But Now As I Never Swim Unless I Tumble Into The Water, I Don't Make Love Till Almost Obliged.

The Light Of Love, The Purity Of Grace, The Mind, The Music Breathing From Her Face, The Heart Whose Softness Harmonised The Whole — And, Oh! That Eye Was In Itself A Soul!

Go Let Thy Less Than Woman's Hand Assume The Distaff Not The Brand.

And Doubt And Discord Step 'twixt Thine And Thee.

But 'why Then Publish?' There Are No Rewards Of Fame Or Profit When The World Grows Weary. I Ask In Turn Why Do You Play At Cards? Why Drink? Why Read? To Make Some Hour Less Dreary. It Occupies Me To Turn Back Regards On What I've Seen Or Pondered, Sad Or Cheery, And What I Write I Cast Upon The Stream To Swim Or Sink. I Have Had At Least My Dream.

How Sweet And Soothing Is This Hour Of Calm! I Thank Thee, Night! For Thou Has Chased Away These Horrid Bodements Which, Amidst The Throng, I Could Not Dissipate; And With The Blessing Of Thy Benign And Quiet Influence Now Will I To My Couch, Although To Rest Is Almost Wronging Such A Night As This.

Knowledge Is Not Happiness, And Science But An Exchange Of Ignorance For That Which Is Another Kind Of Ignorance.

Yet I Did Love Thee To The Last, As Ferverently As Thou, Who Didst Not Change Through All The Past, And Canst Not Alter Now.

I Love Not Man The Less, But Nature More.

The Lapse Of Ages Changes All Things - Time - Language - The Earth - The Bounds Of The Sea - The Stars Of The Sky, And Everything 'about, Around, And Underneath' Man, Except Man Himself, Who Has Always Been And Always Will Be, An Unlucky Rascal. The Infinite Variety Of Lives Conduct But To Death, And The Infinity Of Wishes Lead But To Disappointment. All The Discoveries Which Have Yet Been Made Have Multiplied Little But Existence.

There Is Pleasure In The Pathless Woods, There Is Rapture In The Lonely Shore, There Is Society Where None Intrudes, By The Deep Sea, And Music In Its Roar; I Love Not Man The Less, But Nature More.

They Used To Say That Knowledge Is Power. I Used To Think So, But I Know Now They Mean Money.

In Solitude, Where We Are Least Alone.

Never To Talk To Ones Self Is A Form Of Hypocrisy

Roll On, Thou Deep And Dark Blue Ocean

I Have A Passion For The Name Of "mary," For Once It Was A Magic Sound To Me, And Still It Half Calls Up The Realms Of Fairy, Where I Beheld What Never Was To Be.

I Am The Very Slave Of Circumstance And Impulse -- Borne Away With Every Breath!

And Then He Danced,-all Foreigners Excel The Serious Angels In The Eloquence Of Pantomime;-he Danced, I Say, Right Well, With Emphasis, And A'so With Good Sense-a Thing In Footing Indispensable: He Danced Without Theatrical Pretence, Not Like A Ballet-master In The Van Of His Drill'd Nymphs, But Like A Gentleman.

Fair Greece! Sad Relic Of Departed Worth! Immortal, Though No More! Though Fallen, Great!

I Slept And Dreamt That Life Was Beauty; I Woke And Found That Life Was Duty.

I Do Not Believe In Any Religion, I Will Have Nothing To Do With Immortality. We Are Miserable Enough In This Life Without Speculating Upon Another.

The Stars Are Forth, The Moon Above The Tops Of The Snow-shining Mountains--beautiful! I Linger Yet With Nature, For The Night Hath Been To Me A More Familiar Face Than That Of Man, And In Her Starry Shade Of Dim And Solitary Loveliness I Learned The Language Of Another World.

Man, Being Reasonable, Must Get Drunk; The Best Of Life Is But Intoxication.

I Cannot Describe To You The Despairing Sensation Of Trying To Do Something For A Man Who Seems Incapable Or Unwilling To Do Anything Further For Himself.

Sorrow Is Knowledge, Those That Know The Most Must Mourn The Deepest, The Tree Of Knowledge Is Not The Tree Of Life.

In The Desert A Fountain Is Springing, In The Wide Waste There Still Is A Tree, And A Bird In The Solitude Singing, Which Speaks To My Spirit Of Thee

There Is Music In All Things, If Men Had Ears.

It Is Useless To Tell One Not To Reason But To Believe; You Might As Well Tell A Man Not To Wake But Sleep.

There Is Pleasure In The Pathless Woods.

What Opposite Discoveries We Have Seen! (signs Of True Genius, And Of Empty Pockets.) One Makes New Noses, One A Guillotine, One Breaks Your Bones, One Sets Them In Their Sockets; But Vaccination Certainly Has Been A Kind Antithesis To Congreve's Rockets.

I Have Not Loved The World, Nor The World Me, But Let Us Part Fair Foes; I Do Believe, Though I Have Found Them Not, That There May Be Words Which Are Things, Hopes Which Will Not Deceive, And Virtues Which Are Merciful, Or Weave Snares For The Failing: I Would Also Deem O'er Others' Griefs That Some Sincerely Grieve; That Two, Or One, Are Almost What They Seem, That Goodness Is No Name, And Happiness No Dream.

The Bright Sun Was Extinguish'd, And The Stars Did Wander Darkling In The Eternal Space.

I Am As Comfortless As A Pilgrim With Peas In His Shoes - And As Cold As Charity, Chastity Or Any Other Virtue.

Think'st Thou There Is No Tyranny But That Of Blood And Chains? The Despotism Of Vice-- The Weakness And The Wickedness Of Luxury-- The Negligence--the Apathy--the Evils Of Sensual Sloth--produces Ten Thousand Tyrants, Whose Delegated Cruelty Surpasses The Worst Acts Of One Energetic Master, However Harsh And Hard In His Own Bearing.

Man's Love Is Of Man's Life A Part; It Is A Woman's Whole Existence. In Her First Passion, A Woman Loves Her Lover, In All The Others All She Loves Is Love.

'tis Very Certain The Desire Of Life Prolongs It.

I Should Like To Know Who Has Been Carried Off, Except Poor Dear Me - I Have Been More Ravished Myself Than Anybody Since The Trojan War.

The Dome Of Thought, The Palace Of The Soul.

I Depart, Whither I Know Not; But The Hour's Gone By When Albion's Lessening Shores Could Grieve Or Glad Mine Eye.

There Is No Passion, More Spectral Or Fantastical Than Hate, Not Even Its Opposite, Love, So Peoples Air, With Phantoms, As This Madness Of The Heart.

Old Man! 'tis Not Difficult To Die.

I Live, But Live To Die: And, Living, See Nothing To Make Death Hateful, Save An Innate Clinging, A Loathsome And Yet All Invincible Instinct Of Life, Which I Abhor, As I Despise Myself, Yet Cannot Overcome — And So I Live. Would I Had Never Lived!

I Would Rather Have A Nod From An American, Than A Snuff- Box From An Emperor.

Where There Is Mystery, It Is Generally Suspected There Must Also Be Evil.

On With The Dance! Let Joy Be Unconfin'd No Sleep Till Morn, When Youth And Pleasure Meet To Chase The Glowing Hours With Flying Feet

Tis Pleasing To Be School'd In A Strange Tongue By Female Lips And Eyes--that Is, I Mean, When Both The Teacher And The Taught Are Young, As Was The Case, At Least, Where I Have Been; They Smile So When One's Right; And When One's Wrong They Smile Still More.

The Poor Dog, In Life The Firmest Friend. The First To Welcome, Foremost To Defend.

Venice Once Was Dear, The Pleasant Place Of All Festivity, The Revel Of The Earth, The Masque Of Italy.

Nothing So Difficult As A Beginning In Poesy, Unless Perhaps The End.

What An Antithetical Mind! - Tenderness, Roughness - Delicacy, Coarseness - Sentiment, Sensuality - Soaring And Groveling, Dirt And Deity - All Mixed Up In That One Compound Of Inspired Clay!

In Commitment, We Dash The Hopes Of A Thousand Potential Selves.

The Great Object Of Life Is Sensation - To Feel That We Exist - Even Though In Pain - It Is This "craving Void" Which Drives Us To Gaming - To Battle - To Travel - To Intemperate But Keenly Felt Pursuits Of Every Description Whose Principal Attraction Is The Agitation Inseparable From Their Accomplishment.

They Truly Mourn, That Mourn Without A Witness.

Then Farewell, Horace; Whom I Hated So, Not For Thy Faults, But Mine.

A Rose With All Its Sweetest Leaves Yet Folded.

Alas! How Deeply Painful Is All Payment!

The Devil Was The First Democrat

And The Commencement Of Atonement Is The Sense Of Its Necessity.

He Had Kept The Whiteness Of His Soul, And Thus Men O'er Him Wept.

Tis Pleasant Purchasing Our Fellow-creatures; And All Are To Be Sold, If You Consider Their Passions, And Are Dext'rous; Some By Features Are Brought Up, Others By A Warlike Leader; Some By A Place--as Tend Their Years Or Natures; The Most By Ready Cash--but All Have Prices, From Crowns To Kicks, According To Their Vices.

The Art Of Angling, The Cruelest, The Coldest And The Stupidest Of Pretended Sports.

Always Laugh When You Can. It Is Cheap Medicine.

I Shall Soon Be Six-and-twenty. Is There Anything In The Future That Can Possibly Console Us For Not Being Always Twenty-five?

The Keenest Pangs The Wretched Find Are Rapture To The Dreary Void, The Leafless Desert Of The Mind, The Waste Of Feelings Unemployed.

So The Struck Eagle, Stretch'd Upon The Plain, No More Through Rolling Clouds To Soar Again, View'd His Own Feather On The Fatal Dart, And Wing'd The Shaft That Quiver'd In His Heart.

I Am Acquainted With No Immaterial Sensuality So Delightful As Good Acting.

This Place Is The Devil, Or At Least His Principal Residence, They Call It The University, But Any Other Appellation Would Have Suited It Much Better, For Study Is The Last Pursuit Of The Society; The Master Eats, Drinks, And Sleeps, The Fellows Drink, Dispute And Pun, The Employments Of The Undergraduates You Will Probably Conjecture Without My Description.

Do Proper Homage To Thine Idol's Eyes; But No Too Humbly, Or She Will Despise Thee And Thy Suit, Though Told In Moving Tropes: Disguise Even Tenderness If Thou Art Wise.

My Native Land, Good Night!

There Is, In Fact, No Law Or Government At All; And It Is Wonderful How Well Things Go On Without Them.

Friendship Is Love Without His Wings!

There Is No Such Thing As A Life Of Passion Any More Than A Continuous Earthquake, Or An Eternal Fever. Besides, Who Would Ever Shave Themselves In Such A State?

There Are Some Feelings Time Cannot Benumb, Nor Torture Shake.

Earth! Render Back From Out Thy Breast A Remnant Of Our Spartan Dead! Of The Three Hundred Grant But Three, To Make A New Thermopylæ!

Mark! Where His Carnage And His Conquests Cease, He Makes A Solitude And Calls It-peace!

Our Life Is Two Fold Sleep Hath Its Own World, A Boundary Between The Things Misnamed Death And Existence Sleep Hath Its Own World, And A Wide Realm Of Wild Reality.

My Turn Of Mind Is So Given To Taking Things In The Absurd Point Of View, That It Breaks Out In Spite Of Me Every Now And Then.

They Never Fail Who Die In A Great Cause.

There Are Four Questions Of Value In Life, Don Octavio. What Is Sacred? Of What Is The Spirit Made? What Is Worth Living For And What Is Worth Dying For? The Answer To Each Is The Same. Only Love.

Despair And Genius Are Too Oft Connected

But Every Fool Describes, In These Bright Days, His Wondrous Journey To Some Foreign Court, And Spawns His Quarto, And Demands Your Praise,-- Death To His Publisher, To Him 'tis Sport.

No Ear Can Hear Nor Tongue Can Tell The Tortures Of The Inward Hell!

But There Are Wanderers O'er Eternity Whose Bark Drives On And On, And Anchor'd Ne'er Shall Be.

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