Sweet is every sound, sweeter the voice, but every sound is sweet.

The many fail: the one succeeds.

Sin is too stupid to see beyond itself.

It is the little rift within the lute That by and by will make the music mute, And ever widening slowly silence all.

The woods are hush'd, their music is no more; The leaf is dead, the yearning past away; New leaf, new life--the days of frost are o'er; New life, new love, to suit the newer day: New loves are sweet as those that went before: Free love--free field--we love but while we may.

With a little hoard of maxims preaching down a daughter's heart.

The Gods themselves cannot recall their gifts.