Know ye the land where the cypress and myrtle Are emblems of deeds that are done in their clime? Where the rage of the vulture, the love of the turtle, Now melt into sorrow, now madden to crime!

There is no traitor like him whose domestic treason plants the poniard within the breast that trusted to his truth

There's not a sea the passenger e'er pukes in, Turns up more dangerous breakers than the Euxine.

Man is born passionate of body, but with an innate though secret tendency to the love of Good in his main-spring of Mind. But God help us all! It is at present a sad jar of atoms.

I am acquainted with no immaterial sensuality so delightful as good acting.

I had a dream, which was not at all a dream.

I do detest everything which is not perfectly mutual.