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The pleasure that is in sorrow is sweeter than the pleasure of pleasure itself.
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The man of virtuous soul commands not, nor obeys.
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Love's very pain is sweet, But its reward is in the world divine Which, if not here, it builds beyond the grave.
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Poor captive bird! Who, from thy narrow cage, Pourest such music, that it might assuage The rugged hearts of those who prisoned thee, Were they not deaf to all sweet melody.
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To that high Capital, where kingly Death Keeps his pale court in beauty and decay, He came.
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Cease, cease, wayward Mortal! I dare not unveil The shadows that float o’er Eternity’s vale; Nought waits for the good but a spirit of Love, That will hail their blest advent to regions above. For Love, Mortal, gleams through the gloom of my sway, And the shades which surround me fly fast at its ray.
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Heaven's ebon vault, Studded with stars unutterably bright, Through which the moon's unclouded grandeur rolls, Seems like a canopy which love has spread To curtain her sleeping world.
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Most wretched men Are cradled into poetry by wrong; They learn in suffering what they teach in song.
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The breath Of accusation kills an innocent name, And leaves for lame acquittal the poor life, Which is a mask without it.
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A Christian, a Deist, a Turk, and a Jew, have equal rights: they are men and brethren.
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Is it not odd that the only generous person I ever knew, who had money to be generous with, should be a stockbroker.
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We are all Greeks. Our laws, our literature, our religion, our arts have their root in Greece.
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Gold is a living god and rules in scorn, All earthly things but virtue.
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And many more Destructions played In this ghastly masquerade, All disguised, even to the eyes, Like Bishops, lawyers, peers, or spies.
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Age cannot Love destroy, But perfidy can blast the flower, Even when in most unwary hour It blooms in Fancy’s bower. Age cannot Love destroy, But perfidy can rend the shrine In which its vermeil splendours shine.
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And bid them love each other and be blest: And leave the troop which errs, and which reproves, And come and be my guest, - for I am Love's.
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All spirits are enslaved which serve things evil.
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Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight.
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If it be proved that the world is ruled by a Divine Power, no inference necessarily can be drawn from that circumstance in favour of a future state.
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Lost Angel of a ruined Paradise! She knew not 'twas her own; as with no stain She faded, like a cloud which had outwept its rain.
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You lie-under a mistake, For this is the most civil sort of lie That can be given to a man's face. I now Say what I think.
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Then, what is Life?
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Let there be light! said Liberty, And like sunrise from the sea, Athens arose!
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Dar’st thou amid the varied multitude To live alone, an isolated thing?