Despair doth strike as deep a furrow in the brain as mischief or remorse.

How silent are the winds!

So mightiest powers buy deepest calms are fed, And sleep, how oft, in things that gentlest be!

I said that I loved the wise proverb, Brief, simple and deep; For it I'd exchange the great poem That sends us to sleep.

Where are Shakespeare's imagination, Bacon's learning, Galileo's dream? Where is the sweet fancy of Sidney, the airy spirit of Fletcher, and Milton's thought severe? Methinks such things should not die and dissipate, when a hair can live for centuries, and a brick of Egypt will last three thousand years. I am content to believe that the mind of man survives, somehow or other, his clay.

Pity speaks to grief more sweetly than a band of instruments.

Despair doth strike as deep a furrow in the brain as mischief or remorse.