Like the measles, love is most dangerous when it comes late in life.

A sort of hostile transaction, very necessary to keep the world going, but by no means a sinecure to the parties concerned.

Time strips our illusions of their hue, And one by one in turn, some grand mistake Casts off its bright skin yearly like the snake.

I cannot describe to you the despairing sensation of trying to do something for a man who seems incapable or unwilling to do anything further for himself.

What want these outlaws conquerors should have but history's purchased page to call them great?

So bright the tear in Beauty's eye, Love half regrets to kiss it dry.

Scion of chiefs and monarchs, where art thou? Fond hope of many nations, art thou dead? Could not the grave forget thee, and lay low Some less majestic, less beloved head?