The keenest pangs the wretched find Are rapture to the dreary void, The leafless desert of the mind, The waste of feelings unemployed.
Of all the horrid, hideous notes of woe, Sadder than owl-songs or the midnight blast; Is that portentous phrase, "I told you so.
Romances paint at full length people's wooing. But only give a bust of marriages.
All Heaven and Earth are still, though not in sleep, But breathless, as we grow when feeling most.
I do detest everything which is not perfectly mutual.
Talent may be in time forgiven, but genius never
The bright sun was extinguish'd, and the stars Did wander darkling in the eternal space.
Self-love for ever creeps out, like a snake, to sting anything which happens to stumble upon it.
A sort of hostile transaction, very necessary to keep the world going, but by no means a sinecure to the parties concerned.
Like to the apples on the Dead Sea's shore, All ashes to the taste.
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!
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.
There's naught, no doubt, so much the spirit calms as rum and true religion.
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.
Yet he was jealous, though he did not show it, For jealousy dislikes the world to know it.
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.
I depart, Whither I know not; but the hour's gone by When Albion's lessening shores could grieve or glad mine eye.
If ancient tales say true, nor wrong these holy men.
Nothing so difficult as a beginning In poesy, unless perhaps the end.
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.
There is no traitor like him whose domestic treason plants the poniard within the breast that trusted to his 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.
Twas twilight, and the sunless day went down Over the waste of waters; like a veil, Which, if withdrawn, would but disclose the frown Of one whose hate is mask'd but to assail.
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.
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.
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