One certainly has a soul; but how it came to allow itself to be enclosed in a body is more than I can imagine.

What men call gallantry, and gods adultery, is much more common where the climate's sultry.

Oh! might I kiss those eyes of fire, A million scarce would quench desire; Still would I steep my lips in bliss, And dwell an age on every kiss; Nor then my soul should sated be, Still would I kiss and cling to thee: Nought should my kiss from thine dissever, Still would we kiss and kiss for ever; E'en though the numbers did exceed The yellow harvest's countless seed; To part would be a vain endeavour: Could I desist? -ah! never-never.

Then farewell, Horace; whom I hated so, Not for thy faults, but mine.

I speak not of men's creeds—they rest between Man and his Maker.

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

Though I love my country, I do not love my countrymen.