In this commonplace world every one is said to be romantic who either admires a fine thing or does one.

A generous friendship no cold medium knows, Burns with one love, with one resentment glows.

Be not the first by whom the new are tried, Nor yet the last to lay the old aside.

A brave man struggling in the storms of fate, And greatly falling with a falling state.

Now warm in love, now with'ring in my bloom Lost in a convent's solitary gloom!

Great oaks grow from little acorns. He has a green thumb. He has green fingers. He's sowing his wild oats. Here Ceres' gifts in waving prospect stand, And nodding tempt the joyful reaper's hand.

Passions are the gales of life.