A little still she strove, and much repented, And whispering “I will ne'er consent”—consented.

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.

Self-love for ever creeps out, like a snake, to sting anything which happens to stumble upon it.

The thorns which I have reap'd are of the tree I planted; they have torn me, and I bleed. I should have known what fruit would spring from such a seed.

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.

So sweet the blush of bashfulness, E'en pity scarce can wish it less!

It is when we think we lead that we are most led.