There is pleasure in the pathless woods.
Fame is the thirst of youth.
So much alarmed that she is quite alarming
There's naught, no doubt, so much the spirit calms as rum and true religion.
But what is Hope? Nothing but the paint on the face of Existence; the least touch of truth rubs it off, and then we see what a hollow-cheeked harlot we have got hold of.
Whatsoever thy birth, Thou wert a beautiful thought, and softly bodied forth.