Too much wit makes the world rotten.
As love, if love be perfect, casts out fear, so hate, if hate be perfect, casts out fear.
This world was once a fluid haze of light, Till toward the centre set the starry tides, And eddied into suns, that wheeling cast The planets: then the monster, then the man.
A sorrow's crown of sorrow is remembering happier times.
The vow that binds too strictly snaps itself.
Man is man, and master of his fate.