The keenest pangs the wretched find Are rapture to the dreary void, The leafless desert of the mind, The waste of feelings unemployed.
Lord ByronTime strips our illusions of their hue, And one by one in turn, some grand mistake Casts off its bright skin yearly like the snake.
Lord ByronThe premises are so delightfully extensive, that two people might live together without ever seeing, hearing or meeting.
Lord Byron