There is no such thing as a life of passion any more than a continuous earthquake, or an eternal fever. Besides, who would ever shave themselves in such a state?
The drying up a single tear has more, of honest fame, than shedding seas of gore.
He had kept The whiteness of his soul, and thus men o'er him wept.
Ah, happy years! once more who would not be a boy?
Good but rarely came from good advice.
Now what I love in women is, they won't Or can't do otherwise than lie, but do it. So well, the very truth seems falsehood to it.