[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.
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.
Despair and Genius are too oft connected
I am surrounded here by parsons and methodists, but as you will see, not infested with the mania.
I have no consistency, except in politics; and that probably arises from my indifference to the subject altogether.
Constancy... that small change of love, which people exact so rigidly, receive in such counterfeit coin, and repay in baser metal.
Knowledge is not happiness, and science But an exchange of ignorance for that Which is another kind of ignorance.
This sort of adoration of the real is but a heightening of the beau ideal.
No ear can hear nor tongue can tell the tortures of the inward hell!
That prose is a verse, and verse is a prose; convincing all, by demonstrating plain – poetic souls delight in prose insane
Men love in haste, but they detest at leisure.
Keep thy smooth words and juggling homilies for those who know thee not.
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!
Then farewell, Horace; whom I hated so, Not for thy faults, but mine.
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.
Maidens, like moths, are ever caught, by glare, And Mammon wins his way where seraphs might despair.
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.
Sweet is old wine in bottles, ale in barrels.
Never to talk to ones self is a form of hypocrisy
There is pleasure in the pathless woods.
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.
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 am about to be married, and am of course in all the misery of a man in pursuit of happiness.
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.
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.
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