This race is never grateful: from the first, One fills their cup at supper with pure wine, Which back they give at cross-time on a sponge, In bitter vinegar.

I love thee freely, as men strive for right. I love thee purely, as they turn from praise. I love thee with the passion put to use

Girls blush, sometimes, because they are alive, half wishing they were dead to save the shame. The sudden blush devours them, neck and brow; They have drawn too near the fire of life, like gnats, and flare up bodily, wings and all. What then? Who's sorry for a gnat or girl?

I begin to think that none are so bold as the timid, when they are fairly roused.

A woman's always younger than a man at equal years.

I love thee to the depth and breadth and height my soul can reach.

The charm, one might say the genius, of memory is that it is choosy, chancy and temperamental.