“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.”

But words are things, and a small drop of ink, Falling like dew, upon a thought, produces That which makes thousands, perhaps millions, think.

The heart will break, but broken live on.

What is fame? The advantage of being known by people of whom you yourself know nothing, and for whom you care as little.

The drying up a single tear has more, of honest fame, than shedding seas of gore.

For truth is always strange; stranger than fiction.

Like the measles, love is most dangerous when it comes late in life.

She walks in beauty, like the night Of cloudless climes and starry skies; And all that’s best of dark and bright Meet in her aspect and her eyes.

Come what may, I have been blest.

What should I have known or written had I been a quiet, mercantile politician or a lord in waiting? A man must travel, and turmoil, or there is no existence.

The first moment of an universal republic would convert me into an advocate for single and uncontradicted despotism.

The tiger will himself intervene in the discussion, in a manner which will be in every sense conclusive.

The devil was the first democrat

Of religion I know nothing — at least, in its favor.

This is to be mortal, And seek the things beyond mortality.

Damn description, it is always disgusting.

The best prophet of the future is the past.