Ere land and sea and the all-covering sky Were made, in the whole world the countenance Of nature was the same, all one, well named Chaos, a raw and undivided mass, Naught but a lifeless bulk, with warring seeds Of ill-joined elements compressed together.
There is no such thing as pure, unalloyed pleasure; some bitter ever mingles with the sweet.
Our neighbour's crop is always more fruitful and his cattle produce more milk than our own.
Pleasant words are the food of love.
The sharp thorn often produces delicate roses.
The glow of inspiration warms us; it is a holy rapture.