The common damn'd shun their society.
Of joys departed, not to return, how painful the remembrance
How blunt are all the arrows of thy quiver in comparison with those of guilt.
Action, so to speak, is the genius of nature.
The good he scorn'd Stalk'd off reluctant, like an ill-us'd ghost, Not to return; or if it did, its visits Like those of angels, short, and far between.
When it draws near to witching time of night.