Now what I love in women is, they won't Or can't do otherwise than lie, but do it. So well, the very truth seems falsehood to it.
Of all tales 'tis the saddest--and more sad, Because it makes us smile.
In general I do not draw well with literary men -- not that I dislike them but I never know what to say to them after I have praised their last publication.
It would be difficult, perhaps, to find the annals of a nation less stained with crimes than those of the Armenians, whose virtues have been those of peace, and their vices those of compulsion. But whatever may have been their destiny and it has been bitter whatever it may be in future, their country must ever be one of the most interesting on the globe.
Mark! Where his carnage and his conquests cease, He makes a solitude and calls it-peace!
Though sages may pour out their wisdom's treasure, there is no sterner moralist than pleasure.
The Cardinal is at his wit's end - it is true that he had not far to go.
And what is writ is writ - / Would it were worthier!
All human history attests That happiness for man, - the hungry sinner! - Since Eve ate apples, much depends on dinner. ~Lord Byron, Don Juan, Canto XIII, stanza 99
Fills The air around with beauty.
The 'good old times' - all times when old are good.
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.
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.
I loved my country, and I hated him.
When age chills the blood, when our pleasures are past - For years fleet away with the wings of the dove - The dearest remembrance will still be the last, Our sweetest memorial the first kiss of love.
Grieving, if aught inanimate e'er grieves, Over the unreturning brave.
The reading or non-reading a book will never keep down a single petticoat.
The thorns which I have reap'd are of the tree I planted; they have torn me, and I bleed. I should have known what fruit would spring from such a seed.
I suppose we shall soon travel by air-vessels; make air instead of sea voyages; and at length find our way to the moon, in spite of the want of atmosphere.
With flowing tail and flying mane, Wide nostrils never stretched by pain, Mouth bloodless to bit or rein, And feet that iron never shod, And flanks unscar'd by spur or rod, A thousand horses - the wild - the free - Like waves that follow o'er the sea, Came thickly thundering on.
O Gold! I still prefer thee unto paper, which makes bank credit like a bark of vapour.
The music, and the banquet, and the wine-- The garlands, the rose odors, and the flowers, The sparkling eyes, and flashing ornaments-- The white arms and the raven hair--the braids, And bracelets; swan-like bosoms, and the necklace, An India in itself, yet dazzling not.
With thee all tales are sweet; each clime has charms; earth - sea alike - our world within our arms.
The Coach does not play in the game, but the Coach helps the players identify areas to improve their game.
I am as comfortless as a pilgrim with peas in his shoes - and as cold as Charity, Chastity or any other Virtue.
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