Don't get me wrong-painting's all right. But now that we have photography, what's the point?

And Marlowe, Webster, Fletcher, Ben, Whose fire-hearts sowed our furrows when The world was worthy of such men.

There, that is our secret: go to sleep! You will wake, and remember, and understand.

And yet, because I love thee, I obtain From that same love this vindicating grace, To live on still in love, and yet in vain

What we call Life is a condition of the soul. And the soul must improve in happiness and wisdom, except by its own fault. These tears in our eyes, these faintings of the flesh, will not hinder such improvement.

The English have a scornful insular way Of calling the French light.

A woman's pity sometimes makes her mad.