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

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.

Amid my list of blessings infinite, stands this the foremost, "that my heart has bled."

We are all born originals - why is it so many of us die copies?

Midway from Nothing to the Deity!

Not all the pride of beauty; Those eyes, that tell us what the sun is made of; Those lips, whose touch is to be bought with life; Those hills of driven snow, which seen are felt: All these possessed are nought, but as they are The proof, the substance of an inward passion, And the rich plunder of a taken heart.

One to destroy, is murder by the law; and gibbets keep the lifted hand in awe; to murder thousands, takes a specious name, 'War's glorious art', and gives immortal fame.