There is sweet music here that softer falls Than petals from blown roses on the grass.

Man is the hunter; women are the game; those sleek and shining creatures of the chase. We hunt them for the beauty of their skins; they love us for it, and we ride them down.

And blessings on the falling out That all the more endears, When we fall out with those we love And kiss again with tears!

The jingling of the guinea helps the hurt that Honor feels.

Shall the hag Evil die with the child of Good, Or propagate again her loathèd kind, Thronging the cells of the diseased mind, Hateful with hanging cheeks, a withered brood, Though hourly pastured on the salient blood?

Knowledge comes, but wisdom lingers.

Thoroughly to believe in one's own self, so one's self were thorough, were to do great things.