Though the day of my Destiny 's over, And the star of my Fate hath declined, Thy soft heart refused to discover The faults which so many could find.

Ah, nut-brown partridges! Ah, brilliant pheasants! And ah, ye poachers!--'Tis no sport for peasants.

Think you, if Laura had been Petrarch's wife, He would have written sonnets all his life?.

Eternity forbids thee to forget.

But what is Hope? Nothing but the paint on the face of Existence; the least touch of truth rubs it off, and then we see what a hollow-cheeked harlot we have got hold of.

Keep thy smooth words and juggling homilies for those who know thee not.

The best prophet of the future is the past.