Lord, it is my chief complaint, That my love is weak and faint; Yet I love thee and adore, Oh for grace to love thee more!
Vice stings us even in our pleasures, but virtue consoles us even in our pains.
An epigram is but a feeble thing - With straw in tail, stuck there by way of sting.
All we behold is miracle.
Th' embroid'ry of poetic dreams.
Just knows, and knows no more, her Bible true,- A truth the brilliant Frenchman never knew.