For all have not the gift of martyrdom.

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.

When I consider life, it is all a cheat. Yet fooled with hope, people favor this deceit.

It's a hard world, neighbors, if a man's oath must be his master.

Some of our philosophizing divines have too much exalted the faculties of our souls, when they have maintained that by their force mankind has been able to find out God.

When beauty fires the blood, how love exalts the mind!

But love's a malady without a cure.