Of all tales 'tis the saddest--and more sad, Because it makes us smile.

The simple Wordsworth . . . / Who, both by precept and example, shows / That prose is verse, and verse is merely prose.

Ah, happy years! once more who would not be a boy?

The Cardinal is at his wit's end - it is true that he had not far to go.

Know ye not who would be free themselves must strike the blow? by their right arms the conquest must be wrought?

Smiles form the channels of a future tear.

She was like me in lineaments-- her eyes Her hair, her features, all, to the very tone Even of her voice, they said were like to mine; But soften'd all, and temper'd into beauty; She had the same lone thoughts and wanderings, The quest of hidden knowledge, and a mind To comprehend the universe: nor these Alone, but with them gentler powers than mine, Pity, and smiles, and tears-- which I had not; And tenderness-- but that I had for her; Humility-- and that I never had. Her faults were mine-- her virtues were her own-- I loved her, and destroy'd her!