New vows to plight, and plighted vows to break.
Death in itself is nothing; but we fear to be we know not what, we know not where.
Woman's honor is nice as ermine; it will not bear a soil.
Rhyme is the rock on which thou art to wreck.
All, as they say, that glitters is not gold.
He is the very Janus of poets; he wears almost everywhere two faces; and you have scarce begun to admire the one, ere you despise the other.