O! Let me not be mad, not mad, sweet heaven; keep me in temper; I would not be mad!
Thus weary of the world, away she hies, And yokes her silver doves; by whose swift aid Their mistress mounted through the empty skies In her light chariot quickly is convey'd; Holding their course to Paphos, where their queen Means to immure herself and not be seen.
Life... is a paradise to what we know of death.
Dream on, dream on, of bloody deeds and death.
A victory is twice itself when the achiever brings home full numbers.
Like one who draws the model of a house beyond his power to build it who, half through, gives o'er, and leaves his part-created cost a naked subject to the weeping clouds.