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

The tragedy of sexual intercourse is the perpetual virginity of the soul.

Locke sank into a swoon; The Garden died; God took the spinning-jenny Out of his side.

How far away the stars seem, and how far is our first kiss, and ah, how old my heart.

Designs in connection with postage stamps and coinage may be described, I think, as the silent ambassadors on national taste.

Everything we look upon is blest.

And many a poor man that has roved Loved and thought himself beloved From a glad kindness cannot take his eyes.