My only books were woman’s looks, and folly’s all they’ve taught me.
Though an angel should write, still ’tis devils must print.
And soon, too soon, we part with pain, To sail o’er silent seas again.
Oh! blame not the bard.
Humility, that low, sweet root, from which all heavenly virtues shoot.
Bastard Freedom waves Her fustian flag in mockery over slaves.
Came but for friendship, and took away love.
No, there’s nothing half so sweet in life as love’s young dream.
And the heart that is soonest awake to the flowers is always the first to be touch’d by the thorns.
Courage is the fear of being thought a coward.