Our souls sit close and silently within, And their own web from their own entrails spin; And when eyes meet far off, our sense is such, That, spider-like, we feel the tenderest touch.

And love's the noblest frailty of the mind.

All delays are dangerous in war.

To die is landing on some distant shore.

Love is a child that talks in broken language, yet then he speaks most plain.

Rich the treasure, Sweet the pleasure,- Sweet is pleasure after pain.

Imitators are but a servile kind of cattle.