Sweet is old wine in bottles, ale in barrels.

My days are in the yellow leaf; The flowers and fruits of love are gone; The worm, the canker, and the grief, Are mine alone!

Italia! O Italia! thou who hast The fatal gift of beauty.

Damn description, it is always disgusting.

Pythagoras, Locke, Socrates - but pages might be filled up, as vainly as before, with the sad usage of all sorts of sages, who in his life-time, each was deemed a bore! The loftiest minds outrun their tardy ages.

A timid mind is apt to mistake every scratch for a mortal wound.

The English winter - ending in July to recommence in August