For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast. |
For truth is always strange; stranger than fiction. |
For truth is always strange; stranger than fiction. |
For what were all these country patriots born? / To hunt, and vote, and raise the price of corn? |
Friendship is Love without his wings! |
Friendship may, and often does, grow into love, but love never subsides into friendship. |
Good but rarely came from good advice |
Half dust, half deity, unfit alike to sink or soar |
Hatred is the madness of the heart |
He counted them at break of day - / And when the sun set where were they? |
He had written much blank verse, and blanker prose. |
He left a Corsair's name to other times, / Linked with one virtue, and a thousand crimes. |
He makes a solitude, and calls it - peace |
He pattered with his keys at a great rate, / And sweated through his apostolic skin: / Of course his perspiration was but ichor, / Or some such other spiritual liquor. |
He possessed beauty without vanity, strength without insolence; courage without ferocity; and all the virtues of man without his vices |