Pleasure's a sin, and sometimes sin's a pleasure.

I have not loved the World, nor the World me; I have not flattered its rank breath, nor bowed To its idolatries a patient knee, Nor coined my cheek to smiles,-nor cried aloud In worship of an echo.

Farewell! if ever fondest prayer For other's weal avail'd on high, Mine will not all be lost in air, But waft thy name beyond the sky.

For a man to become a poet (witness Petrarch and Dante), he must be in love, or miserable.

Christians have burnt each other, quite persuaded. That all the Apostles would have done as they did.

A schoolboy's tale, the wonder of an hour!

Romances paint at full length people's wooing. But only give a bust of marriages.