A thought Of that late death took all my heart for speech.

We make out of the quarrel with others, rhetoric, but of the quarrel with ourselves, poetry.

And the merry love the fiddle, and the merry love to dance.

I think you can leave the arts, superior or inferior, to the conscience of mankind.

Though I am old with wandering Through hollow lands and hilly lands, I will find out where she has gone, And kiss her lips and take her hands; And walk among long dappled grass, And pluck till time and times are done The silver apples of the moon, The golden apples of the sun.

The worst thing about some men is that when they are not drunk they are sober.

The world being illusive, one must be deluded in some way if one is to triumph in it.