Music's golden tongue Flatter'd to tears this aged man and poor.
It appears to me that almost any man may like the spider spin from his own inwards his own airy citadel.
My imagination is a monastery and I am its monk.
Failure is, in a sense, the highway to success.
I see a lily on thy brow, With anguish moist and fever dew; And on thy cheek a fading rose Fast withereth too.
You are always new to me.