Romances paint at full length people's wooing. But only give a bust of marriages.
My native land, good night!
Mark! Where his carnage and his conquests cease, He makes a solitude and calls it-peace!
Life is too short for chess.
Still from the fount of joy's delicious springs Some bitter o'er the flowers its bubbling venom flings.
Nor all that heralds rake from coffin'd clay, Nor florid prose, nor honied lies of rhyme, Can blazon evil deeds, or consecrate a crime.