Friendship is Love without his wings!
For what were all these country patriots born? To hunt, and vote, and raise the price of corn?
For in itself a thought, a slumbering thought, is capable of years, and curdles a long life into one hour.
Fools are my theme, let Satire be my song.
Folly loves the martyrdom of Fame.
Fame is the thirst of youth.
Fair Greece! sad relic of departed worth! Immortal, though no more; though fallen, great!
Every day confirms my opinion on the superiority of a vicious life – and if Virtue is not it’s own reward I don’t know any other stipend annexed to it.
Death, so called, is a thing which makes men weep, and yet a third of life is passed in sleep.
Compassion will melt, where this virtue is felt, and its dew is diffused in a Tear.
Cervantes smiled Spain’s chivalry away; a single laugh demolish’d the right arm of his own country.
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.
