And God, the herdsman, goads them on behind.

A line will take us hours maybe; / Yet if it does not seem a moment's thought, / Our stitching and unstitching has been naught... Better go down upon your marrow-bones / And scrub a kitchen pavement, or break stones... For to articulate sweet sounds together / Is to work harder than all these, and yet / Be thought an idler by the noisy set.

But Love has pitched his mansion in the place of excrement. For nothing can be sole or whole that has not been rent.

I have read somewhere that in the Emperor's palace at Byzantium was a tree made of gold and silver, and artificial birds that sang.

And God stands winding His lonely horn, And time and the world are ever in flight.

Happiness is neither virtue nor pleasure nor this thing nor that but simply growth, We are happy when we are growing.

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