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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.

-Lord Byron

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It Is True From

Lord Byron

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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.

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What's Drinking? A Mere Pause From Thinking!

I Have Always Believed That All Things Depended Upon Fortune, And Nothing Upon Ourselves.

They Never Fail Who Die In A Great Cause.

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!

Such Partings Break The Heart They Fondly Hope To Heal.

Tis An Old Lesson; Time Approves It True, And Those Who Know It Best, Deplore It Most; When All Is Won That All Desire To Woo, The Paltry Prize Is Hardly Worth The Cost.

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

Despair And Genius Are Too Oft Connected

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

Fills The Air Around With Beauty.

I Hate All Pain, Given Or Received; We Have Enough Within Us The Meanest Vassal As The Loftiest Monarch, Not To Add To Each Other's Natural Burden Of Mortal Misery.

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

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!

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

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?

Always Laugh When You Can. It Is Cheap Medicine.

Twas Twilight, And The Sunless Day Went Down Over The Waste Of Waters; Like A Veil, Which, If Withdrawn, Would But Disclose The Frown Of One Whose Hate Is Mask'd But To Assail.

The Castled Crag Of Drachenfels, Frowns O'er The Wide And Winding Rhine, Whose Breast Of Waters Broadly Swells Between The Banks Which Bear The Vine, And Hills All Rich With Blossom'd Trees, And Fields Which Promise Corn And Wine, And Scatter'd Cities Crowning These, Whose Far White Walls Along Them Shine.

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

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

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

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.

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

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.

What Deep Wounds Ever Closed Without A Scar? The Hearts Bleed Longest, And Heals But To Wear That Which Disfigures It.

Wounds And Scars

There Is No Instinct Like That Of The Heart.

To Have Joy, One Must Share It.

Champagne With Its Foaming Whirls/as White As Cleopatra's Pearls.

Think'st Thou Existence Doth Depend On Time? It Doth; But Actions Are Our Epochs.

If I Am Fool, It Is, At Least, A Doubting One; And I Envy No One The Certainty Of His Self-approved Wisdom.

I Came To Realize Clearly That The Mind Is No Other Than The Mountain And The Rivers And The Great Wide Earth, The Sun And The Moon And The Sky”.

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.

On The Ear Drops The Light Drip Of The Suspended Oar.

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

Her Great Merit Is Finding Out Mine; There Is Nothing So Amiable As Discernment.

If I Don't Write To Empty My Mind, I Go Mad.

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.

If I Don't Write To Empty My Mind, I Go Mad. As To That Regular, Uninterrupted Love Of Writing. I Do Not Understand It. I Feel It As A Torture, Which I Must Get Rid Of, But Never As A Pleasure. On The Contrary, I Think Composition A Great Pain.

One Certainly Has A Soul; But How It Came To Allow Itself To Be Enclosed In A Body Is More Than I Can Imagine.

A Quiet Conscience Makes One So Serene.

A Small Drop Of Ink Makes Thousands, Perhaps Millions... Think.

A Thousand Years May Scare Form A State. An Hour May Lay It In Ruins.

Pythagoras, Locke, Socrates - But Pages Might Be Filled Up, As Vainly As Before, With The Sad Usage Of All Sorts Of Sages, Who In His Life-time, Each Was Deemed A Bore! The Loftiest Minds Outrun Their Tardy Ages.

It Is Odd But Agitation Or Contest Of Any Kind Gives A Rebound To My Spirits And Sets Me Up For A Time.

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.

And Dreams In Their Development Have Breath, And Tears, And Tortures, And The Touch Of Joy; They Have A Weight Upon Our Waking Thoughts, They Take A Weight From Off Our Waking Toils, They Do Divide Our Being.

I Should, Many A Good Day, Have Blown My Brains Out, But For The Recollection That It Would Have Given Pleasure To My Mother-in-law.

A Man Of Eighty Has Outlived Probably Three New Schools Of Painting, Two Of Architecture And Poetry And A Hundred In Dress.

There Is No Traitor Like Him Whose Domestic Treason Plants The Poniard Within The Breast That Trusted To His Truth

For What Were All These Country Patriots Born? To Hunt, And Vote, And Raise The Price Of Corn?

Be Hypocritical, Be Cautious, Be Not What You Seem But Always What You See.

He Scratched His Ear, The Infallible Resource To Which Embarrassed People Have Recourse.

My Slumbers--if I Slumber--are Not Sleep, But A Continuance Of Enduring Thought, Which Then I Can Resist Not: In My Heart There Is A Vigil, And These Eyes But Close To Look Within; And Yet I Live, And Bear The Aspect And The Form Of Breathing Men.

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 On Wondering For A Week To Come.

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

Good Work And Joyous Play Go Hand In Hand. When Play Stops, Old Age Begins. Play Keeps You From Taking Life Too Seriously.

This Is To Be Along; This, This Is Solitude!

Know Ye Not Who Would Be Free Themselves Must Strike The Blow? By Their Right Arms The Conquest Must Be Wrought?

Fill High The Cup With Samian Wine!

The Sight Of Blood To Crowds Begets The Thirst Of More, As The First Wine-cup Leads To The Long Revel.

A Feast Not Profuse But Elegant; More Of Salt [refinement] Than Of Expense.

If From Society We Learn To Live, Solitude Should Teach Us How To Die.

Sweet Is Revenge-especially To Women.

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

A Sleep Without Dreams, After A Rough Day Of Toil, Is What We Covet Most; And Yet How Clay Shrinks Back From More Quiescent Clay! The Very Suicide That Pays His Debt At Once Without Installments (an Old Way Of Paying Debts, Which Creditors Regret) Lets Out Impatiently His Rushing Breath, Less From Disgust Of Life Than Dread Of Death.

No Words Suffice The Secret Soul To Show, For Truth Denies All Eloquence To Woe.

Oh! Might I Kiss Those Eyes Of Fire, A Million Scarce Would Quench Desire; Still Would I Steep My Lips In Bliss, And Dwell An Age On Every Kiss; Nor Then My Soul Should Sated Be, Still Would I Kiss And Cling To Thee: Nought Should My Kiss From Thine Dissever, Still Would We Kiss And Kiss For Ever; E'en Though The Numbers Did Exceed The Yellow Harvest's Countless Seed; To Part Would Be A Vain Endeavour: Could I Desist? -ah! Never-never.

I Can't But Say It Is An Awkward Sight To See One's Native Land Receding Through The Growing Waters; It Unmans One Quite, Especially When Life Is Rather New.

I Am Always Most Religious Upon A Sunshiny Day.

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.

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

I Love Not Man The Less, But Nature More.

That Music In Itself, Whose Sounds Are Song, The Poetry Of Speech.

Let Joy Be Unconfined.

Admire, Exult, Despise, Laugh, Weep For Here There Is Such Matter For All Feelings: Man! Thou Pendulum Betwixt A Smile And Tear.

That Prose Is A Verse, And Verse Is A Prose; Convincing All, By Demonstrating Plain – Poetic Souls Delight In Prose Insane

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.

Had Sigh'd To Many, Though He Loved But One.

The English Winter - Ending In July To Recommence In August

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.

A Change Came O'er The Spirit Of My Dream.

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

But As To Women, Who Can Penetrate The Real Sufferings Of Their She Condition? Man's Very Sympathy With Their Estate Has Much Of Selfishness And More Suspicion. Their Love, Their Virtue, Beauty, Education, But Form Good Housekeepers, To Breed A Nation.

Men Love In Haste, But They Detest At Leisure.

Scion Of Chiefs And Monarchs, Where Art Thou? Fond Hope Of Many Nations, Art Thou Dead? Could Not The Grave Forget Thee, And Lay Low Some Less Majestic, Less Beloved Head?

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.

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

Man Is Born Passionate Of Body, But With An Innate Though Secret Tendency To The Love Of Good In His Main-spring Of Mind. But God Help Us All! It Is At Present A Sad Jar Of Atoms.

Farewell! If Ever Fondest Prayer For Other's Weal Avail'd On High, Mine Will Not All Be Lost In Air, But Waft Thy Name Beyond The Sky.

'tis Very Certain The Desire Of Life Prolongs It.

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.

I Was Accused Of Every Monstrous Vice By Public Rumour And Private Rancour; My Name, Which Had Been A Knightly Or Noble One, Was Tainted. I Felt That, If What Was Whispered, And Muttered, And Murmured, Was True, I Was Unfit For England; If False, England Was Unfit For Me.

I Stood Among Them, But Not Of Them: In A Shroud Of Thoughts Which Were Not Their Thoughts.

And Gentle Winds And Waters Near, Make Music To The Lonely Ear.

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

[my Advice] Will One Day Be Found With Other Relics Of 'a Former World,' When This World Shall Be Former, Underground, Thrown Topsy-turvy, Twisted, Crisped, And Curled, Baked, Fried Or Burnt, Turned Inside-out, Or Drowned, Like All The Worlds Before, Which Have Been Hurled First Out Of, And Then Back Again To Chaos, The Superstratum Which Will Overlay Us.

Good But Rarely Came From Good Advice.

Know Ye The Land Where The Cypress And Myrtle Are Emblems Of Deeds That Are Done In Their Clime? Where The Rage Of The Vulture, The Love Of The Turtle, Now Melt Into Sorrow, Now Madden To Crime!

Hatred Is The Madness Of The Heart.

The Premises Are So Delightfully Extensive, That Two People Might Live Together Without Ever Seeing, Hearing Or Meeting.

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.

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.

Though I Love My Country, I Do Not Love My Countrymen.

Though Sages May Pour Out Their Wisdom's Treasure, There Is No Sterner Moralist Than Pleasure.

There Is Something To Me Very Softening In The Presence Of A Woman, Some Strange Influence, Even If One Is Not In Love With Them, Which I Cannot At All Account For, Having No Very High Opinion Of The Sex. But Yet, I Always Feel In Better Humor With Myself And Every Thing Else, If There Is A Woman Within Ken.

Where Are The Forms The Sculptor's Soul Hath Seized? In Him Alone, Can Nature Show As Fair?

Ah, Happy Years! Once More Who Would Not Be A Boy?

The Coach Does Not Play In The Game, But The Coach Helps The Players Identify Areas To Improve Their Game.

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

Dim With The Mist Of Years, Gray Flits The Shade Of Power.

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

Dreading That Climax Of All Human Ills The Inflammation Of His Weekly Bills.

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.

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

The Best Prophet Of The Future Is The Past.

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 Heart In Passion, And My Head On Rhymes.

I Had A Dream, Which Was Not At All A Dream.

So We'll Go No More A-roving So Late Into The Night, Though The Heart Still Be As Loving, And The Moon Still Be As Bright. For The Sword Outwears Its Sheath, And The Soul Outwears The Breast, And The Heart Must Pause To Breathe, And Love Itself Have Rest. Though The Night Was Made For Loving, And The Day Returns Too Soon, Yet We'll Go No More A-roving By The Light Of The Moon.

Smiles Form The Channels Of A Future Tear.

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

War, War Is Still The Cry,-"war Even To The Knife!"

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

Send Me No More Reviews Of Any Kind. I Will Read No More Of Evil Or Good In That Line. Walter Scott Has Not Read A Review Of Himself For Thirteen Years .

A Man Must Serve His Time To Every Trade, Save Censure-critics All Are Ready Made. Take Hackney'd Jokes From Miller, Got By Rote With Just Enough Learning To Misquote.

Let Us Have Wine And Woman, Mirth And Laughter, Sermons And Soda Water The Day After. Man, Being Reasonable, Must Get Drunk; The Best Of Life Is But Intoxication: Glory, The Grape, Love, Gold, In These Are Sunk The Hopes Of All Men, And Of Every Nation; Without Their Sap, How Branchless Were The Trunk Of Life's Strange Tree, So Fruitful On Occasion: But To Return--get Very Drunk; And When You Wake With Head-ache, You Shall See What Then.

It Is Not One Man Nor A Million, But The Spirit Of Liberty That Must Be Preserved. The Waves Which Dash Upon The Shore Are, One By One, Broken, But The Ocean Conquers Nevertheless. It Overwhelms The Armada, It Wears Out The Rock. In Like Manner, Whatever The Struggle Of Individuals, The Great Cause Will Gather Strength.

Man Is A Carnivorous Production, And Must Have Meals, At Least One Meal A Day; He Cannot Live, Like Woodcocks, Upon Suction, But, Like The Shark And Tiger, Must Have Prey; Although His Anatomical Construction Bears Vegetables, In A Grumbling Way, Your Laboring People Think Beyond All Question, Beef, Veal, And Mutton Better For Digestion.

Most Glorious Night! Thou Wert Not Sent For Slumber!

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.

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

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

Rough Johnson, The Great Moralist.

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!

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.

In Solitude, When We Are Least Alone.

There's Not A Sea The Passenger E'er Pukes In, Turns Up More Dangerous Breakers Than The Euxine.

Yes, Love Indeed Is Light From Heaven; A Spark Of That Immortal Fire With Angels Shared, By Allah Given To Lift From Earth Our Low Desire.

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

In Solitude, Where We Are Least Alone.

They Say That Hope Is Happiness But Genuine Love Must Prize The Past; And Mem'ry Wakes The Thoughts That Bless: They Rose First -- They Set The Last. And All That Mem'ry Loves The Most Was Once Our Only Hope To Be: And All That Hope Adored And Lost Hath Melted Into Memory. Alas! It Is Delusion All-- The Future Cheats Us From Afar: Nor Can We Be What We Recall, Nor Dare We Think On What We Are.

Marriage, From Love, Like Vinegar From Wine-- A Sad, Sour Sober Beverage--by Time Is Sharpened From Its High Celestial Flavor Down To A Very Homely Household Savor.

A Thirst For Gold, The Beggar's Vice, Which Can But Overwhelm The Meanest Hearts.

Just As Old Age Is Creeping On Space, And Clouds Come O'er The Sunset Of Our Day, They Kindly Leave Us, Though Not Quite Alone, But In Good Company--the Gout Or Stone.

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.

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.

So For A Good Old-gentlemanly Vice, I Think I Must Take Up With Avarice.

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.

Ah, Nut-brown Partridges! Ah, Brilliant Pheasants! And Ah, Ye Poachers!--'tis No Sport For Peasants.

A Pretty Woman Is A Welcome Guest.

Hearts Will Break - Yet Brokenly, Live On.

Time Strips Our Illusions Of Their Hue, And One By One In Turn, Some Grand Mistake Casts Off Its Bright Skin Yearly Like The Snake.

Shelley Is Truth Itself And Honour Itself Notwithstanding His Out-of-the-way Notions About Religion.

You Don't Love A Woman Because She Is Beautiful, But She Is Beautiful Because You Love Her. Never Underestimate The Power Of Love. The Way To Love Anything Is To Realize It May Be Lost. The Heart Has Its Reasons That Reason Does Not Know At All. Music Is Love In Search Of A Word. There Is Pleasure In The Pathless Woods; There Is A Rapture On The Lonely Shore; There Is Society, Where None Intrudes, By The Deep Sea, And Music In Its Roar.

A Celebrity Is One Who Is Known To Many Persons He Is Glad He Doesn't Know.

Thy Decay's Still Impregnate With Divinity.

I Only Go Out To Get Me A Fresh Appetite For Being Alone.

Appetite For Life

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

I Know That Two And Two Make Four - And Should Be Glad To Prove It Too If I Could - Though I Must Say If By Any Sort Of Process I Could Convert 2 And 2 Into Five It Would Give Me Much Greater Pleasure.

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.

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

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.

Think Not I Am What I Appear.

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. You May Call The People A Mob; But Do Not Forget That A Mob Too Often Speaks The Sentiments Of The People.

'tis Sweet To Know There Is An Eye Will Mark Our Coming, And Look Brighter When We Come.

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.

A Material Resurrection Seems Strange And Even Absurd Except For Purposes Of Punishment, And All Punishment Which Is To Revenge Rather Than Correct Must Be Morally Wrong, And When The World Is At An End, What Moral Or Warning Purpose Can Eternal Tortures Answer?

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

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

Never To Talk To Ones Self Is A Form Of Hypocrisy

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.

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

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.

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.

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

Yet He Was Jealous, Though He Did Not Show It, For Jealousy Dislikes The World To Know It.

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!

A Good Coach Encourages The Same Type Of Resilience In The People They Work With. They Encourage Them To Take Risks. If The Risk Results In Failure, They Help All People To Learn From The Mistake And Then Go On To Try Another Way.

She Walks In Beauty, Like The Night Of Cloudless Climes And Starry Skies; And All That's Best Of Dark And Bright Meet In Her Aspect And Her Eyes.

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

A Mistress Never Is Nor Can Be A Friend. While You Agree, You Are Lovers; And When It Is Over, Anything But Friends.

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

Between Two Worlds Life Hovers Like A Star, Twixt Night And Morn, Upon The Horizon's Verge.

Fools Are My Theme, Let Satire Be My Song.

Armenian Is The Language To Speak With God.

It Has Been Said That The Immortality Of The Soul Is A Grand Peut-tre -but Still It Is A Grand One. Everybody Clings To It -the Stupidest, And Dullest, And Wickedest Of Human Bipeds Is Still Persuaded That He Is Immortal.

Oh! Too Convincing--dangerously Dear-- In Woman's Eye The Unanswerable Tear! That Weapon Of Her Weakness She Can Wield, To Save, Subdue--at Once Her Spear And Shield.

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

Have Not All Past Human Beings Parted, And Must Not All The Present, One Day Part?

Oh, Talk Not To Me Of A Name Great In Story; The Days Of Our Youth Are The Days Of Our Glory; And The Myrtle And Ivy Of Sweet Two-and-twenty Are Worth All Your Laurels, Though Ever So Plenty.

The Niobe Of Nations! There She Stands.

The Sky Is Changed,-and Such A Change! O Night And Storm And Darkness! Ye Are Wondrous Strong, Yet Lovely In Your Strength, As Is The Light Of A Dark Eye In Woman! Far Along, From Peak To Peak, The Rattling Crags Among, Leaps The Live Thunder.

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.

That Famish'd People Must Be Slowly Nurst, And Fed By Spoonfuls, Else They Always Burst.

But First, On Earth As Vampire Sent, Thy Corse Shall From Its Tomb Be Rent, Then Ghastly Haunt Thy Native Place, And Suck The Blood Of All Thy Race. There From Thy Daughter, Sister, Wife, At Midnight Drain The Stream Of Life, Yet Loathe The Banquet Which Perforce Must Feed Thy Livid Living Corse. Thy Victims Ere They Yet Expire Shall Know The Demon For Their Sire, As Cursing Thee, Thou Cursing Them, Thy Flowers Are Withered On The Stem.

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.

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

All Heaven And Earth Are Still, Though Not In Sleep, But Breathless, As We Grow When Feeling Most.

But Words Are Things, And A Small Drop Of Ink, Falling Like Dew, Upon A Thought, Produces That Which Makes Thousands, Perhaps Millions, Think.

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

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