Egeria! sweet creation of some heart Which found no mortal resting-place so fair As thine ideal breast.
Sighing that Nature formed but one such man, and broke the die.
Sweet is old wine in bottles, ale in barrels.
What deep wounds ever closed without a scar? The hearts bleed longest, and heals but to wear That which disfigures it.
Why do they call me misanthrope? Because They hate me, not I them.
Fair Greece! sad relic of departed worth! Immortal, though no more! though fallen, great!