Men love in haste, but they detest at leisure.
I do detest everything which is not perfectly mutual.
Now hatred is by far the longest pleasure; men love in haste but they detest at leisure.
The dew of compassion is a tear.
But words are things, and a small drop of ink, Falling like dew, upon a thought, produces That which makes thousands, perhaps millions, think.
A man of eighty has outlived probably three new schools of painting, two of architecture and poetry and a hundred in dress.
Man, being reasonable, must get drunk; the best of life is but intoxication.
Men think highly of those who rise rapidly in the world; whereas nothing rises quicker than dust, straw, and feathers.
I would rather have a nod from an American, than a snuff-box from an emperor.
One certainly has a soul; but how it came to allow itself to be enclosed in a body is more than I can imagine. I only know if once mine gets out, I'll have a bit of a tussle before I let it get in again to that of any other.
Fame is the thirst of youth.
Folly loves the martyrdom of fame.
Who tracks the steps of glory to the grave?
The great art of life is sensation, to feel that we exist, even in pain.
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.
In England the only homage which they pay to Virtue - is hypocrisy.
Shelley is truth itself and honour itself notwithstanding his out-of-the-way notions about religion.
Between two worlds life hovers like a star, twixt night and morn, upon the horizon's verge.
If I could always read, I should never feel the want of company.
'Tis pleasant, sure, to see one's name in print. A book's a book, although there's nothing in 't.