Men are but children of a larger growth.
The perverseness of my fate is such that he's not mine because he's mine too much.
She, though in full-blown flower of glorious beauty, Grows cold even in the summer of her age.
He invades authors like a monarch; and what would be theft in other poets is only victory in him.
Merit challenges envy.
Him of the western dome, whose weighty sense Flows in fit words and heavenly eloquence.