I have not loved the world, nor the world me.
But every fool describes, in these bright days, His wondrous journey to some foreign court, And spawns his quarto, and demands your praise,-- Death to his publisher, to him 'tis sport.
Hatred is the madness of the heart.
A thousand years may scare form a state. An hour may lay it in ruins.
The drying up a single tear has more, of honest fame, than shedding seas of gore.
What deep wounds ever closed without a scar? The hearts bleed longest, and heals but to wear That which disfigures it.