Sleep in peace, and wake in joy.
The way was long, the wind was cold, The Minstrel was infirm and old; His withered cheek, and tresses gray, Seemed to have know a better day.
Literature is a great staff, but a very sorry crutch.
For Love will still be lord of all.
He hath a share of man's intelligence, but no share of man's falsehood.
The lover's pleasure, like that of the hunter, is in the chase, and the brightest beauty loses half its merit, as the flower its perfume, when the willing hand can reach it too easily. There must be doubt; there must be difficulty and danger.