Prolonged endurance tames the bold.
What is the end of Fame? 'tis but to fill A certain portion of uncertain paper: Some liken it to climbing up a hill, Whose summit, like all hills, is lost in vapour: For this men write, speak, preach, and heroes kill, And bards burn what they call their "midnight taper," To have, when the original is dust, A name, a wretched picture, and worse bust.
When Bishop Berkeley said "there was no matter." And proved it--'t was no matter what he said.
My days are in the yellow leaf; The flowers and fruits of love are gone; The worm, the canker, and the grief, Are mine alone!
I only know we loved in vain; I only feel-farewell! farewell!
But I had not quite fixed whether to make him [Don Juan] end in Hell-or in an unhappy marriage,-not knowing which would be the severest.
A man of eighty has outlived probably three new schools of painting, two of architecture and poetry and a hundred in dress.
He had kept The whiteness of his soul, and thus men o'er him wept.
But every fool describes, in these bright days, His wondrous journey to some foreign court, And spawns his quarto, and demands your praise,-- Death to his publisher, to him 'tis sport.
My great comfort is, that the temporary celebrity I have wrung from the world has been in the very teeth of all opinions and prejudices. I have flattered no ruling powers; I have never concealed a single thought that tempted me.
The sky is changed,-and such a change! O night And storm and darkness! ye are wondrous strong, Yet lovely in your strength, as is the light Of a dark eye in woman! Far along, From peak to peak, the rattling crags among, Leaps the live thunder.
I cannot conceive why people will always mix up my own character and opinions with those of the imaginary beings which, as a poet, I have the right and liberty to draw.
And then he danced,-all foreigners excel the serious Angels in the eloquence of pantomime;-he danced, I say, right well, with emphasis, and a'so with good sense-a thing in footing indispensable: he danced without theatrical pretence, not like a ballet-master in the van of his drill'd nymphs, but like a gentleman.
Retirement accords with the tone of my mind; I will not descend to a world I despise.
Think'st thou existence doth depend on time? It doth; but actions are our epochs.
I have always believed that all things depended upon Fortune, and nothing upon ourselves.
The place is very well and quiet and the children only scream in a low voice.
Every day confirms my opinion on the superiority of a vicious life, and if Virtue is not its own reward, I don't know any other stipend annexed to it.
Perhaps the early grave Which men weep over may be meant to save.
And those who saw, it did surprise, Such drops could fall from human eyes.
It has been said that the immortality of the soul is a grand peut-tre -but still it is a grand one. Everybody clings to it -the stupidest, and dullest, and wickedest of human bipeds is still persuaded that he is immortal.
My turn of mind is so given to taking things in the absurd point of view, that it breaks out in spite of me every now and then.
Then stirs the feeling infinite, so felt In solitude, where we are least alone.
For a man to become a poet (witness Petrarch and Dante), he must be in love, or miserable.
So the struck eagle, stretch'd upon the plain, No more through rolling clouds to soar again, View'd his own feather on the fatal dart, And wing'd the shaft that quiver'd in his heart.
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