With thee all tales are sweet; each clime has charms; earth - sea alike - our world within our arms.

There is no passion, more spectral or fantastical than hate, not even its opposite, love, so peoples air, with phantoms, as this madness of the heart.

I hate all pain, Given or received; we have enough within us The meanest vassal as the loftiest monarch, Not to add to each other's natural burden Of mortal misery.

Like to the apples on the Dead Sea's shore, All ashes to the taste.

He scratched his ear, the infallible resource to which embarrassed people have recourse.

I stood among them, but not of them: in a shroud of thoughts which were not their thoughts.

O Fame! if I ever took delight in thy praises, Twas less for the sake of thy high-sounding phrases, Than to see the bright eyes of the dear one discover The thought that I was not unworthy to love her.