The sweetest noise on earth, a woman's tongue; A string which hath no discord.
Death is the tyrant of the imagination.
Oh, the summer night, Has a smile of light, And she sits on a sapphire throne.
O human beauty, what a dream art thou, that we should cast our life and hopes away on thee!
Most writers steal a good thing when they can, and when 'Tis safely got 'Tis worth the winning. The worst of 't is we now and then detect em, they ever dream that we suspect em.
Pity speaks to grief more sweetly than a band of instruments.