O! for a muse of fire, that would ascend the brightest heaven of invention.
Love is like a child, That longs for everything it can come by
He is not worthy of the honey-comb, that shuns the hives because the bees have stings.
I am never merry when I hear sweet music.
Hereafter, in a better world than this, I shall desire more love and knowledge of you
You have dancing shoes with nimble soles. I have a soul of lead.