A dedication is a wooden leg.

The house of laughter makes a house of woe.

Some wits, too, like oracles, deal in ambiguities, but not with equal success; for though ambiguities are the first excellence of an imposter, they are the last of a wit.

The bell strikes One. We take no note of time But from its loss. To give it then a tongue Is wise in man. As if an angel spoke, I feel the solemn sound. If heard aright, It is the knell of my departed hours.

An undevout astronomer is mad.

We push time from us, and we wish him back; * * * * * * Life we think long and short; death seek and shun.

Mine is the night, with all her stars.