Love is free; to promise for ever to love the same woman is not less absurd than to promise to believe the same creed; such a vow in both cases excludes us from all inquiry.

The desire of the moth for the star, Of the night for the morrow, The devotion to something afar From the sphere of our sorrow.

The warm sun is failing, the bleak wind is wailing, The bare boughs are sighing, the pale flowers are dying, And the Year On the earth her death-bed, in a shroud of leaves dead, Is lying. . . .

His fine wit Makes such a wound, the knife is lost in it.

Revenge is the naked idol of the worship of a semi-barbarous age.

Fate,Time,Occasion,Chance, and Change? To these All things are subject but eternal love.

Of Planets, struggling fierce towards heaven's free wilderness.