Sorrow preys upon Its solitude, and nothing more diverts it From its sad visions of the other world Than calling it at moments back to this. The busy have no time for tears.

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

Fools are my theme, let satire be my song.

I am no Platonist, I am nothing at all; but I would sooner be a Paulician, Manichean, Spinozist, Gentile, Pyrrhonian, Zoroastrian, than one of the seventy-two villainous sects who are tearing each other to pieces for the love of the Lord and hatred of each other.

I do detest everything which is not perfectly mutual.

Accursed be the city where the laws would stifle nature's!

Cervantes smiled Spain's chivalry away.