Without a sign, his sword the brave man draws, and asks no omen, but his country's cause.

There is the heat of Love, the pulsing rush of Longing, the lover’s whisper, irresistible—magic to make the sanest man go mad.

Two urns on Jove's high throne have ever stood, the source of evil one, and one of good; from thence the cup of mortal man he fills, blessings to these, to those distributes ills; to most he mingles both.

The lot of man-to suffer and die.

It is wrong to sorrow without ceasing.

I'm a Spalding Gray in a Rick Dees world.

After the event, even a fool is wise.