Oh, talk not to me of a name great in story; The days of our youth are the days of our glory; And the myrtle and ivy of sweet two-and-twenty Are worth all your laurels, though ever so plenty.

Who tracks the steps of glory to the grave?

But quiet to quick bosoms is a hell.

And hold up to the sun my little taper.

Switzerland is a curst, selfish, swinish country of brutes, placed in the most romantic region of the world.

I doubt sometimes whether a quiet and unagitated life would have suited me - yet I sometimes long for it.

In commitment, we dash the hopes of a thousand potential selves.