Let no man grumble when his friends fall off, As they will do like leaves at the first breeze; When your affairs come round, one way or t'other, Go to the coffee house, and take another.
I am always most religious upon a sunshiny day.
Smiles form the channels of a future tear.
The French courage proceeds from vanity
Oh, for a forty-parson power to chant Thy praise, Hypocrisy! Oh, for a hymn Loud as the virtues thou dost loudly vaunt, Not practise!
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.
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 have had, and may have still, a thousand friends, as they are called, in life, who are like one's partners in the waltz of this world -not much remembered when the ball is over.
Yet he was jealous, though he did not show it, For jealousy dislikes the world to know it.
To chase the glowing hours with flying feet.
Are not the mountains, waves, and skies as much a part of me, as I of them?
But there are wanderers o'er Eternity Whose bark drives on and on, and anchor'd ne'er shall be.
Damn description, it is always disgusting.
That music in itself, whose sounds are song, The poetry of speech.
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.
Nothing so difficult as a beginning In poesy, unless perhaps the end.
Romances I ne'er read like those I have seen.
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.
He makes a solitude, and calls it - peace!
I speak not of men's creeds—they rest between Man and his Maker.
Lovers may be and indeed generally are enemies, but they never can be friends, because there must always be a spice of jealousy and a something of Self in all their speculations.
Be hypocritical, be cautious, be not what you seem but always what you see.
My native land, good night!
Oh who can tell, save he whose heart hath tried.
Why do they call me misanthrope? Because They hate me, not I them.
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