And Mocha's berry, from Arabia pure, In small fine china cups, came in at last. Gold cups of filigree, made to secure the hand from burning, underneath them place. Cloves, cinnamon and saffron, too, were boiled Up with the coffee, which, I think, they spoiled.

I have not loved the world, nor the world me.

Do proper homage to thine idol's eyes; But no too humbly, or she will despise Thee and thy suit, though told in moving tropes: Disguise even tenderness if thou art wise.

I stood among them, but not of them: in a shroud of thoughts which were not their thoughts.

Tis pleasing to be school'd in a strange tongue By female lips and eyes--that is, I mean, When both the teacher and the taught are young, As was the case, at least, where I have been; They smile so when one's right; and when one's wrong They smile still more.

I love the language, it sounds as if it should be writ on satin with syllables which breathe of the sweet South

As falls the dew on quenchless sands, blood only serves to wash ambition's hands.