Man is in part divine, A troubled stream from a pure source.

I have great hopes that we shall love each other all our lives as much as if we had never married at all.

Critics are already made.

Fair Greece! sad relic of departed worth! Immortal, though no more! though fallen, great!

Perhaps the early grave Which men weep over may be meant to save.

What exile from himself can flee? To zones, though more and more remote, Still, still pursues, where'er I be, The blight of life--the demon Thought.

Like other parties of the kind, it was first silent, then talky, then argumentative, then disputatious, then unintelligible, then altogether, then inarticulate, and then drunk. When we had reached the last step of this glorious ladder, it was difficult to get down again without stumbling.