Girls we love for what they are; young men for what they promise to be.
I do not speak of what I cannot praise.
The march of intellect, which licks all the world into shape, has even reached the devil.
As beauteous is the world, and many a joy Floats through its wide dominion. But, alas, When we would seize the winged good, it flies.
It is the nature of grace always to fill spaces that have been empty.
Yet here I stand poor fool what more, not one wit wiser than before.