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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.

-Lord Byron

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Yet Still There Whispers

Lord Byron

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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.

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Roll On, Thou Deep And Dark Blue Ocean

Sometimes We Are Less Unhappy In Being Deceived By Those We Love, Than In Being Undeceived By Them.

Now I Shall Go To Sleep. Goodnight.

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 Devil Was The First Democrat

Reason Is So Unreasonable, That Few People Can Say They Are In Possession Of It.

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.

Which Cheers The Sad, Revives The Old, Inspires The Young, Makes Weariness Forget His Toil, And Fear Her Danger; Opens A New World When This, The Present, Palls.

So Bright The Tear In Beauty's Eye, Love Half Regrets To Kiss It Dry.

Nothing Can Confound A Wise Man More Than Laughter From A Dunce.

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.

I Only Know We Loved In Vain; I Only Feel-farewell! Farewell!

Exhausting Thought, And Hiving Wisdom With Each Studious Year.

And I Would Hear Yet Once Before I Perish The Voice Which Was My Music... Speak To Me!

So Do The Dark In Soul Expire, Or Live Like Scorpion Girt By Fire; So Writhes The Mind Remorse Hath Riven, Unfit For Earth, Undoom'd For Heaven, Darkness Above, Despair Beneath, Around It Flame, Within It Death.

The Devil Hath Not, In All His Quiver's Choice, An Arrow For The Heart Like A Sweet Voice.

Sublime Tobacco! Which From East To West, Cheers The Tar's Labour Or The Turkman's Rest; Which On The Moslem's Ottoman Divides His Hours, And Rivals Opium And His Brides; Magnificent In Stamboul, But Less Grand, Though Not Less Loved, In Wapping Or The Strand: Divine In Hookas, Glorious In A Pipe, When Tipp'd With Amber, Mellow, Rich, And Ripe; Like Other Charmers Wooing The Caress, More Dazzlingly When Daring In Full Dress; Yet Thy True Lovers More Admire By Far Thy Naked Beauties Give Me A Cigar!

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.

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.

Friendship Is Love Without His Wings!

Father Of Light! Great God Of Heaven! Hear'st Thou The Accents Of Despair? Can Guilt Like Man's Be E'er Forgiven? Can Vice Atone For Crimes By Prayer.

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.

Happiness Was Born A Twin.

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

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

To Chase The Glowing Hours With Flying Feet.

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.

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

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

What Men Call Gallantry, And Gods Adultery, Is Much More Common Where The Climate's Sultry.

A Woman Should Never Be Seen Eating Or Drinking, Unless It Be Lobster Salad And Champagne, The Only True Feminine And Becoming Viands.

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.

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.

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

Then Rose From Sea To Sky The Wild Farewell Then Shriek'd The Timid, And Stood Still The Brave, Then Some Leap'd Overboard With Fearful Yell, As Eager To Anticipate Their Grave.

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

The Waves Were Dead; The Tides Were In Their Grave, The Moon, Their Mistress, Had Expir'd Before; The Winds Were Wither'd In The Stagnant Air, And The Clouds Perish'd; Darkness Had No Need Of Aid From Them-she Was The Universe.

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.

Italia! O Italia! Thou Who Hast The Fatal Gift Of Beauty.

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

I Deny Nothing, But Doubt Everything.

Oh, Christ! It Is A Goodly Sight To See What Heaven Hath Done For This Delicious Land!

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

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!

The Basis Of Your Religion Is Injustice. The Son Of God The Pure, The Immaculate, The Innocent, Is Sacrificed For The Guilty. This Proves His Heroism, But No More Does Away With Man's Sin Than A School Boy's Volunteering To Be Flogged For Another Would Exculpate A Dunce From Negligence.

Ada! Sole Daughter Of My House And Heart.

Romances Paint At Full Length People's Wooing. But Only Give A Bust Of Marriages.

A Little Still She Strove, And Much Repented, And Whispering “i Will Ne'er Consent”—consented.

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

As Long As I Retain My Feeling And My Passion For Nature, I Can Partly Soften Or Subdue My Other Passions And Resist Or Endure Those Of Others.

The Poor Dog, In Life The Firmest Friend, The First To Welcome, Foremost To Defend, Whose Honest Heart Is Still The Master's Own, Who Labours, Fights, Lives, Breathes For Him Alone, Unhonour'd Falls, Unnoticed All His Worth, Denied In Heaven The Soul He Held On Earth, While Man, Vain Insect Hopes To Be Forgiven, And Claims Himself A Sole Exclusive Heaven.

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

The Image Of Eternity--the Throne Of The Invisible; Even From Out Thy Slime The Monsters Of The Deep Are Made; Each Zone Obeys Thee; Thou Goest Forth, Dread, Fathomless, Alone.

Pleasure's A Sin, And Sometimes Sin's A Pleasure.

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

What Should I Have Known Or Written Had I Been A Quiet, Mercantile Politician Or A Lord In Waiting? A Man Must Travel, And Turmoil, Or There Is No Existence.

Jealousy Dislikes The World To Know It.

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

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

Next To Dressing For A Rout Or Ball, Undressing Is A Woe.

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?

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

He Makes A Solitude, And Calls It - Peace!

Perhaps The Early Grave Which Men Weep Over May Be Meant To Save.

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.

The Reading Or Non-reading A Book Will Never Keep Down A Single Petticoat.

Thy Decay's Still Impregnate With Divinity.

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.

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.

The Heart Ran O'er With Silent Worship Of The Great Of Old!-- The Dead, But Sceptred Sovereigns, Who Still Rule Our Spirits From Their Urns.

You Should Have A Softer Pillow Than My Heart.

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.

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

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

Curiosity Kills Itself; And Love Is Only Curiosity, As Is Proved By Its End.

Man's Conscience Is The Oracle Of God.

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.

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

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.

I Learned To Love Despair.

Nor All That Heralds Rake From Coffin'd Clay, Nor Florid Prose, Nor Honied Lies Of Rhyme, Can Blazon Evil Deeds, Or Consecrate A Crime.

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

My Altars Are The Mountains And The Ocean.

Most Glorious Night! Thou Wert Not Sent For Slumber!

Opinions Are Made To Be Changed Or How Is Truth To Be Got At?

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

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 Busy Have No Time For Tears.

A Schoolboy's Tale, The Wonder Of An Hour!

What Deep Wounds Ever Closed Without A Scar?

Wounds And Scars

Friendship May, And Often Does, Grow Into Love, But Love Never Subsides Into Friendship.

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.

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.

Shakespeare's Name, You May Depend On It, Stands Absurdly Too High And Will Go Down.

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.

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.

And Doubt And Discord Step 'twixt Thine And Thee.

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.

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

Let Joy Be Unconfined.

I Love Not Man The Less, But Nature More.

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?

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

For Truth Is Always Strange; Stranger Than Fiction.

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

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

Still From The Fount Of Joy's Delicious Springs Some Bitter O'er The Flowers Its Bubbling Venom Flings.

A Rose With All Its Sweetest Leaves Yet Folded.

It Is By Far The Most Elegant Worship, Hardly Excepting The Greek Mythology. What With Incense, Pictures, Statues, Altars, Shrines, Relics, And The Real Presence, Confession, Absolution, - There Is Something Sensible To Grasp At. Besides, It Leaves No Possibility Of Doubt; For Those Who Swallow Their Deity, Really And Truly, In Transubstantiation, Can Hardly Find Any Thing Else Otherwise Than Easy Of Digestion.

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.

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

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

'tis Very Certain The Desire Of Life Prolongs It.

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

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.

Letter Writing Is The Only Device Combining Solitude With Good Company.

With Thee All Tales Are Sweet; Each Clime Has Charms; Earth - Sea Alike - Our World Within Our Arms.

Oh, Nature's Noblest Gift, My Grey Goose Quill, Slave Of My Thoughts, Obedient To My Will, Torn From The Parent Bird To Form A Pen, That Mighty Instrument Of Little Men.

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

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.

Let None Think To Fly The Danger For Soon Or Late Love Is His Own Avenger.

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

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

We Are All The Fools Of Time And Terror: Days Steal On Us And Steal From Us; Yet We Live, Loathing Our Life, And Dreading Still To Die.

Alas! How Deeply Painful Is All Payment!

Oh! Snatched Away In Beauty's Bloom, On Thee Shall Press No Ponderous Tomb; But On Thy Turf Shall Roses Rear Their Leaves, The Earliest Of The Year.

There Is Pleasure In The Pathless Woods.

Nothing So Fretful, So Despicable As A Scribbler, See What I Am, And What A Parcel Of Scoundrels I Have Brought About My Ears, And What Language I Have Been Obliged To Treat Them With To Deal With Them In Their Own Way; - All This Comes Of Authorship.

This Is The Age Of Oddities Let Loose.

The Dome Of Thought, The Palace Of The Soul.

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.

There's Not A Joy The World Can Give Like That It Takes Away.

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

I Am So Changeable, Being Everything By Turns And Nothing Long - Such A Strange Melange Of Good And Evil.

But Stories Somehow Lengthen When Begun.

Every Day Confirms My Opinion On The Superiority Of A Vicious Life, And If Virtue Is Not Its Own Reward, I Don't Know Any Other Stipend Annexed To It.

What Is The Worst Of Woes That Wait On Age? What Stamps The Wrinkle Deeper On The Brow? To View Each Loved One Blotted From Life's Page, And Be Alone On Earth, As I Am Now.

And If I Laugh At Any Mortal Thing, 'tis That I May Not Weep.

Self Praise Is No Praise At All.

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.

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

Since Eve Ate The Apple, Much Depends On Dinner.

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

Smiles Form The Channels Of A Future Tear.

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.

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

Sorrow Preys Upon Its Solitude, And Nothing More Diverts It From Its Sad Visions Of The Other World Than Calling It At Moments Back To This. The Busy Have No Time For Tears.

One Hates An Author That's All Author.

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.

It Is The Lava Of The Imagination Whose Eruption Prevents An Earthquake.

The Cold, The Changed, Perchance The Dead, Anew, The Mourn'd, The Loved, The Lost,-too Many, Yet How Few!

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

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

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

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

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.

The Dew Of Compassion Is A Tear.

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

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!

Fame Is The Thirst Of Youth.

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.

What A Strange Thing Is Man! And What A Stranger Is Woman.

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

I Live Not In Myself, But I Become Portion Of That Around Me: And To Me High Mountains Are A Feeling, But The Hum Of Human Cities Torture.

We Of The Craft Are All Crazy.

Heaven Gives Its Favourites-early Death.

This Is To Be Mortal, And Seek The Things Beyond Mortality.

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

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

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.

A Woman Who Gives Any Advantage To A Man May Expect A Lover - But Will Sooner Or Later Find A Tyrant.

If Ancient Tales Say True, Nor Wrong These Holy Men.

Socrates Said, Our Only Knowledge Was "to Know That Nothing Could Be Known;" A Pleasant Science Enough, Which Levels To An Ass Each Man Of Wisdom, Future, Past, Or Present. Newton, (that Proverb Of The Mind,) Alas! Declared, With All His Grand Discoveries Recent, That He Himself Felt Only "like A Youth Picking Up Shells By The Great Ocean-truth."

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.

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

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

Appetite For Life

A Drop Of Ink May Make A Million Think.

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

Yet Smelt Roast Meat, Beheld A Huge Fire Shine, And Cooks In Motion With Their Clean Arms Bared.

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

The Cardinal Is At His Wit's End - It Is True That He Had Not Far To Go.

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.

I Have Great Hopes That We Shall Love Each Other All Our Lives As Much As If We Had Never Married At All.

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”.

They Never Fail Who Die In A Great Cause.

I Think The Worst Woman That Ever Existed Would Have Made A Man Of Very Passable Reputation -- They Are All Better Than Us And Their Faults Such As They Are Must Originate With Ourselves.

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.

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.

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

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.

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

I Am So Convinced Of The Advantages Of Looking At Mankind Instead Of Reading About Them, . . . That I Think There Should Be A Law Amongst Us To Set Our Young Men Abroad For A Term Among The Few Allies Our Wars Have Left Us.

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

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.

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

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

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.

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