Till it has loved, no man or woman can become itself.
a sick room is at times too sacred a place for a friend's knock, timid as that is.
Twin loaves of bread have just been born into the world under my auspices. Fine children, the image of their mother. And here, my dear friend, is the glory.
Grant me, O Lord, a sunny mind-Thy windy will to bear!
To multiply the harbors does not reduce the sea.
Why should we censure Othello when the Criterion Lover says, "Thou shalt have no other Gods before Me"?