It calls Devotion! genuine growth of night! Devotion! Daughter of Astronomy! An undevout astronomer is mad!

Age should fly concourse, cover in retreat defects of judgment, and the will subdue; walk thoughtful on the silent, solemn shore of that vast ocean it must sail so soon.

A death-bed's a detector of the heart.

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.

Who combats with a brother, wounds himself.

Joys season'd high, and tasting strong of guilt.

Men before you have quit smoking - you can too!