Early, bright, transient, chaste as morning dew, She sparkled, was exhaled, and went to heaven.

Insatiate archer! could not one suffice? Thy shaft flew thrice, and thrice my peace was slain; And thrice, ere thrice yon moon had filled her horn.

What tender force, what dignity divine, what virtue consecrating every feature; around that neck what dross are gold and pearl!

By all means use some time to be alone.

The melancholy ghosts of dead renown, Whispering faint echoes of the world's applause.

Friendship's the wine of life.

The man that makes a character, makes foes.