The sight of blood to crowds begets the thirst of more, As the first wine-cup leads to the long revel.
That low vice, curiosity!
What makes a regiment of soldiers a more noble object of view than the same mass of mob? Their arms, their dresses, their banners, and the art and artificial symmetry of their position and movements.
I have not loved the World, nor the World me; I have not flattered its rank breath, nor bowed To its idolatries a patient knee, Nor coined my cheek to smiles,-nor cried aloud In worship of an echo.
Alas! how deeply painful is all payment!
Switzerland is a curst, selfish, swinish country of brutes, placed in the most romantic region of the world.
There is no passion, more spectral or fantastical than hate, not even its opposite, love, so peoples air, with phantoms, as this madness of the heart.
I stood in Venice, on the Bridge of Sighs, A palace and a prison on each hand.
Out of chaos God made a world, and out of high passions comes a people.
A feast not profuse but elegant; more of salt [refinement] than of expense.
When falls the Coliseum, Rome shall fall; And when Rome falls--the World.
Most glorious night! Thou wert not sent for slumber!
Yes! Ready money is Aladdin's lamp.
Old man! 'Tis not difficult to die.
And hold up to the sun my little taper.
I have always laid it down as a maxim -and found it justified by experience -that a man and a woman make far better friendships than can exist between two of the same sex -but then with the condition that they never have made or are to make love to each other.
We of the craft are all crazy.
Marriage, from love, like vinegar from wine-- A sad, sour sober beverage--by time Is sharpened from its high celestial flavor Down to a very homely household savor.
The waves were dead; the tides were in their grave, The moon, their mistress, had expir'd before; The winds were wither'd in the stagnant air, And the clouds perish'd; Darkness had no need Of aid from them-She was the Universe.
Parting day Dies like the dolphin, whom each pang imbues With a new colour as it gasps away, The last still loveliest, till-'t is gone, and all is gray.
Oh Rome! My country! City of the soul!
Here's a sigh to those who love me,And a smile to those who hate;And, whatever sky's above me,Here's a heart for every fate.
It is not for minds like ours to give or to receive flatter; yet the praises of sincerity have ever been permitted to the voice of friendship
I love the language, it sounds as if it should be writ on satin with syllables which breathe of the sweet South
Who tracks the steps of glory to the grave?
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