Man, being reasonable, must get drunk; the best of life is but intoxication.
Oh, for a forty-parson power to chant Thy praise, Hypocrisy! Oh, for a hymn Loud as the virtues thou dost loudly vaunt, Not practise!
One of the pleasures of reading old letters is the knowledge that they need no answer.
Self-love for ever creeps out, like a snake, to sting anything which happens to stumble upon it.
Pleasure's a sin, and sometimes sin's a pleasure.
Gone, glimmering through the dream of things that were.