There is a pleasure in the pathless woods, There is a rapture on the lonely shore, There is society, where none intrudes, By the deep sea, and music in its roar: I love not man the less, but Nature more
Friendship is Love without his wings!
Death, so called, is a thing which makes men weep, And yet a third of life is passed in sleep.
All who joy would win must share it. Happiness was born a Twin.
Where there is mystery, it is generally suspected there must also be evil.
Every day confirms my opinion on the superiority of a vicious life - and if Virtue is not its own reward I don't know any other stipend annexed to it.