It is the fortunate who should extol fortune.
As shaking terrors from his blazing hair, a sanguine comet gleams through dusky air.
None merits the name of Creator but God and the poet.
Love is when he gives you a piece of your soul, that you never knew was missing.
O subtle love! a thousand wiles thou hast, by humble suit, by service, or by hire, to win a maiden's hold,--a thing soon done, for nature framed all women to be won.
Lost is the time that you don't spend for love.