Still when the lust of tyrant power succeeds, some Athens perishes, or some Tully bleeds.

Die of a rose in aromatic pain.

What woeful stuff this madrigal would be, In some starved hackney sonneteer, or me! But let a lord once own the happy lines, How the wit brightens! how the style refines!

That character in conversation which commonly passes for agreeable is made up of civility and falsehood.

Is not absence death to those who love?

When to the Permanent is sacrificed the Mutable, the prize is thine: the drop returneth whence it came. The Open Path leads to the changeless change - Non-Being, the glorious state of Absoluteness, the Bliss past human thought.

But blind to former as to future fate, what mortal knows his pre-existent state?