Keep thy smooth words and juggling homilies for those who know thee not.

Many are poets, but without the name;For what is Poesy but to createFrom overfeeling Good or Ill; and aimAt an external life beyond our fate,And be the new Prometheus of new men,Bestowing fire from Heaven, and then, too late,Finding the pleasure given repaid with pain

A woman who gives any advantage to a man may expect a lover - but will sooner or later find a tyrant.

The heart ran o'er With silent worship of the great of old!-- The dead, but sceptred sovereigns, who still rule Our spirits from their urns.

Bologna is celebrated for producing popes, painters, and sausage.

But stories somehow lengthen when begun.

Sorrow preys upon Its solitude, and nothing more diverts it From its sad visions of the other world Than calling it at moments back to this. The busy have no time for tears.