The neck on which diamonds might have worthily sparkled, will look less tempting when the biting winter has hung icicles there for gems.
How many chapters have been written about love verses – and how many more might be written! – might, would, could, should, or ought to be written! – I will venture to say, will be written!
When once the itch of literature comes over a man, nothing can cure it but the scratching of a pen.
My hearing has suffered seriously; just now I am obliged to have the assistance of an ear trumpet. Think of that, my beauty! – There 's a state for your old Lover to be in! – No more tender whisperings! Imagine sweet confessions to be made through an ear trumpet!
When once the itch of literature comes over a man, nothing can cure it but the scratching of a pen. But if you have not a pen, I suppose you must scratch any way you can.
What is wine? It is the grape present in another form; its essence is there, though the fruit which produced it grew thousands of miles away, and perished years ago. So the object of many a tender thought may be spiritually present, in defiance of space – and fond recollections cherished in defiance of time.
To return after long years of painful absence to some place which has been the scene of our former joys, and whence the force of circumstance, and not choice, has driven us, is oppressive to the heart.
Oh, happy triumph of the poet! – to hear his verses wedded to sweet sounds, and warbled by the woman he loves!
Circumstances are the rulers of the weak; they are but the instruments of the wise.
Too little is it considered, while we gaze on aristocratic beauty, how much good food, soft lying, warm wrapping, ease of mind, have to do with the attractions which command our admiration.