But time strips our illusions of their hue, And one by one in turn, some grand mistake Casts off its bright skin yearly like the snake |
But Tom's no more - and so no more of Tom. |
But what is Hope? Nothing but the paint on the face of Existence; the least touch of truth rubs it off, and then we see what a hollow-cheeked harlot we have got hold of. |
But who forgives the senior's ceaseless verse, / Whose hairs grow hoary as his rhymes grow worse? |
By headless Charles see heartless Henry lies. |
By many stories, / And true, we learn the angels are all Tories. |
Christians have burnt each other, quite persuaded that all the Apostles would have done as they did |
Clime of the unforgotten brave! / Whose land from plain to mountain-cave / Was Freedom's home or Glory's grave! |
Comus all allows; / Champagne, dice, music or your neighbour's spouse. |
Constancy... that small change of love, which people exact so rigidly, receive in such counterfeit coin, and repay in baser metal. |
Cool, and quite English, imperturbable. |
Critics are already made. |
Dark-heaving - boundless, endless, and sublime, / The image of eternity, the throne / Of the Invisible. |
Dead scandals form good subjects for dissection |
Dear Doctor, I have read your play, / Which is a good one in its way, - / Purges the eyes and moves the bowels, / And drenches handkerchiefs like towels. |