Mont Blanc is the monarch of mountains; They crown'd him long ago On a throne of rocks, in a robe of clouds, With a diadem of snow.

No hand can make the clock strike for me the hours that are passed.

With thee all tales are sweet; each clime has charms; earth - sea alike - our world within our arms.

So the struck eagle, stretch'd upon the plain, No more through rolling clouds to soar again, View'd his own feather on the fatal dart, And wing'd the shaft that quiver'd in his heart.

A woman who gives any advantage to a man may expect a lover - but will sooner or later find a tyrant.

Eternity forbids thee to forget.

Damn description, it is always disgusting.