Now what I love in women is, they won't Or can't do otherwise than lie, but do it. So well, the very truth seems falsehood to it.

Yet still there whispers the small voice within, Heard through Gain's silence, and o'er Glory's din; Whatever creed be taught or land be trod, Man's conscience is the oracle of God.

Tis not on youth's smooth cheek the blush alone, which fades so fast, But the tender bloom of heart is gone, ere youth itself be past.

Tyranny is for the worst of treasons.

And what is writ is writ - / Would it were worthier!

Fair Greece! sad relic of departed worth! Immortal, though no more! though fallen, great!

I do detest everything which is not perfectly mutual.