You gave me the key to your heart, my love, then why did you make me knock?

Hatred is the madness of the heart.

But words are things, and a small drop of ink, Falling like dew, upon a thought, produces That which makes thousands, perhaps millions, think.

No more we meet in yonder bowers Absence has made me prone to roving; But older, firmer hearts than ours, Have found monotony in loving.

Still from the fount of joy's delicious springs Some bitter o'er the flowers its bubbling venom flings.

They used to say that knowledge is power. I used to think so, but I know now they mean money.

I have not loved the world, nor the world me.