I remain Mistress of mine own self and mine own soul
Ring out the grief that saps the mind, for those that were here we see no more.
God's finger touched him, and he slept.
A man had given all other bliss, And all his worldly worth for this To waste his whole heart in one kiss Upon her perfect lips.
God and Nature met in light.
He is all fault who has no fault at all.
Sweet is true love though given in vain, in vain; And sweet is death who puts an end to pain: I know not which is sweeter, no, not I. Love, art thou sweet? then bitter death must be: Love, thou art bitter; sweet is death to me. O Love, if death be sweeter, let me die. ... I fain would follow love, if that could be; I needs must follow death, who calls for me; Call and I follow, I follow! let me die.
Courtesy wins woman all as well. As valor may, but he that closes both is perfect.
A truth looks freshest in the fashions of the day.
That which we are, we are, and if we are ever to be any better, now is the time to begin.
A day may sink or save a realm.
My purpose holds to sail beyond the sunset and the baths of all the Western stars until I die.
The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deep Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends, Tis not too late to seek a newer world.
The old order changes yielding place to new.
For always roaming with a hungry heart.
For I dipped into the future, far as human eye could see, Saw the Vision of the world, and all the wonder that would be.
A still small voice spake unto me, 'Thou art so full of misery, Were it not better not to be?
Trust me not at all, or all in all.
You, methinks you think you love me well; For me, I love you somewhat; rest: and Love Should have some rest and pleasure in himself, Not ever be too curious for a boon, Too prurient for a proof against the grain Of him ye say ye love: but Fame with men, Being but ampler means to serve mankind, Should have small rest or pleasure in herself, But work as vassal to the larger love, That dwarfs the petty love of one to one.
Too much wit makes the world rotten.
She is coming, my own, my sweet; Were it ever so airy a tread, My heart would hear her and beat, Were it earth in an earthly bed; My dust would hear her and beat, Had I lain for a century dead; Would start and tremble under her feet, And blossom in purple and red.
As the husband is, the wife is.
But what am I? An infant crying in the night: An infant crying for the light: And with no language but a cry.
There is always change, bad customs pass and give way to better ones.
Here at the quiet limit of the world.
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