But every fool describes, in these bright days, His wondrous journey to some foreign court, And spawns his quarto, and demands your praise,-- Death to his publisher, to him 'tis sport.
Life is too short for chess.
Ah, happy years! once more who would not be a boy?
So bright the tear in Beauty's eye, Love half regrets to kiss it dry.
This is to be mortal, And seek the things beyond mortality.
Why do they call me misanthrope? Because They hate me, not I them.