Grieving, if aught inanimate e'er grieves, Over the unreturning brave.

A man of eighty has outlived probably three new schools of painting, two of architecture and poetry and a hundred in dress.

The light of love, the purity of grace, The mind, the Music breathing from her face, The heart whose softness harmonised the whole — And, oh! that eye was in itself a Soul!

I can't but say it is an awkward sight To see one's native land receding through The growing waters; it unmans one quite, Especially when life is rather new.

If we must have a tyrant, let him at least be a gentleman who has been bred to the business, and let us fall by the axe and not by the butcher's cleaver.

I am acquainted with no immaterial sensuality so delightful as good acting.

You gave me the key to your heart, my love, then why did you make me knock?