The great art of life is sensation, to feel that we exist, even in pain.
My heart in passion, and my head on rhymes.
The simple Wordsworth . . . / Who, both by precept and example, shows / That prose is verse, and verse is merely prose.
There is no instinct like that of the heart.
Friendship may, and often does, grow into love, but love never subsides into friendship.
By headless Charles see heartless Henry lies.