Ward has no heart, they say, but I deny it: He has a heart, and gets his speeches by it.
Sweet Memory! wafted by thy gentle gale, Oft up the stream of Time I turn my sail.
The good are better made by ill, As odours crushed are sweeter still.
It doesn't much signify whom one marries, for one is sure to find next morning that it was someone else.
To vanish in the chinks that Time has made.
To know her was to love her.