Spoilt pleasure is a sad, unseemly thing; you can only bury it.

All good dialogue perhaps deals with something unprecedented.

The heart may think it knows better: the senses know that absence blots people out. We really have no absent friends.

nothing is more restful than conformity.

But surely love wouldn't get so much talked about if there were not something in it?

To the sun Rome owes its underlying glow, and its air called golden - to me, more the yellow of white wine; like wine it raises agreeability to poetry.

nobody ever dies of an indignity.