Keep thy smooth words and juggling homilies for those who know thee not.
Fair Greece! sad relic of departed worth! Immortal, though no more! though fallen, great!
Men love in haste, but they detest at leisure.
Tis strange,-but true; for truth is always strange; Stranger than fiction: if it could be told, How much would novels gain by the exchange! How differently the world would men behold!
Such partings break the heart they fondly hope to heal.
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.