For how can you compete Being honour bred, with one Who, were it proved he lies, Were neither shamed in his own Nor in his neighbour's eyes?

I whispered, 'I am too young,' and then, 'I am old enough'; wherefore I threw a penny to find out if I might love.

Man has created death.

What shall I do for pretty girls Now my old bawd is dead?

Time can but make it easier to be wise / Though now it seems impossible, and so / All that you need is patience.

Speech after long silence; it is right, All other lovers being estranged or dead . . . That we descant and yet again descant Upon the supreme theme of Art and Song: Bodily decrepitude is wisdom; young We loved each other and were ignorant.

The best lack all conviction, while the worst are full of passionate intensity.