The drying up a single tear has more, of honest fame, than shedding seas of gore.
What deep wounds ever closed without a scar?
It is the lava of the imagination whose eruption prevents an earthquake.
No more we meet in yonder bowers Absence has made me prone to roving; But older, firmer hearts than ours, Have found monotony in loving.
I stood in Venice, on the Bridge of Sighs, A palace and a prison on each hand.
I have imbibed such a love for money that I keep some sequins in a drawer to count, and cry over them once a week.