I stood in Venice, on the Bridge of Sighs, A palace and a prison on each hand.

Yes, love indeed is light from heaven; A spark of that immortal fire with angels shared, by Allah given to lift from earth our low desire.

I deny nothing, but doubt everything.

The simple Wordsworth . . . / Who, both by precept and example, shows / That prose is verse, and verse is merely prose.

'Tis pleasant, sure, to see one's name in print. A book's a book, although there's nothing in 't.

Think'st thou existence doth depend on time? It doth; but actions are our epochs.

They truly mourn, that mourn without a witness.