Only the mind cannot be sent into exile.

Eurydice, dying now a second time, uttered no complaint against her husband. What was there to complain of, but that she had been loved?

He who can simulate sanity will be sane.

Suppressed grief suffocates, it rages within the breast, and is forced to multiply its strength.

There is no such thing as pure pleasure; some anxiety always goes with it.

A red rose peeping through a white? Or else a cherry (double graced) Within a lily? Centre placed? Or ever marked the pretty beam, A strawberry shows, half drowned in cream? Or seen rich rubies blushing through A pure smooth pearl, and orient too? So like to this, nay all the rest, Is each neat niplet of her breast.

It's useful that there should be Gods, so let's believe there are.