Till old experience do attain To something like prophetic strain.

I sung of Chaos and Eternal Night, Taught by the heav'nly Muse to venture down The dark descent, and up to reascend.

Implied Subjection, but requir'd with gentle sway, And by her yielded, by him best receiv'd,- Yielded with coy submission, modest pride, And sweet, reluctant, amorous delay.

Fairy elves, Whose midnight revels by a forest side Or fountain some belated peasant sees, Or dreams he sees, while overhead the moon Sits arbitress.

Biochemically, love is just like eating large amounts of chocolate.

Truth is as impossible to be soiled by any outward touch as the sunbeam.

Temper justice with mercy.