It is difficult to get rid of people when you once have given them too much pleasure.

I, who had had my heart full for hours, took advantage of an early moment of solitude, to cry in it very bitterly. Suddenly a little hairy head thrust itself from behind my pillow into my face, rubbing its ears and nose against me in a responsive agitation, and drying the tears as they came.

He lives most life whoever breathes most air.

I should not dare to call my soul my own.

Earth's crammed with heaven, And every common bush afire with God: But only he who sees takes off his shoes.

He's just, your cousin, ay, abhorrently, He'd wash his hands in blood, to keep them clean.

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