When Bishop Berkeley said “there was no matter ” And proved it – ’twas no matter what he said.
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: Thus mellowed to that tender light Which heaven to gaudy day denies.
Society is now one polished horde Formed of two mighty tribes the Bores and Bored.
A little curly-headed good-for-nothing And mischief-making monkey from his birth.
Christians have burned each other quite persuaded That all the apostles would have done as they did.
He who surpasses or subdues mankind must look down on the hate of those below.
Nor ear can hear nor tongue can tell The tortures of that inward hell!
Hereditary boundsmen! Know ye not Who would be free themselves must strike the blow?
On with the dance! Let joy be unconfin’d No sleep till morn when Youth and Pleasure meet.
Death so called is a thing which makes men weep And yet a third of life is pass’d in sleep.
Though I love my country I do not love my countrymen.
Let us have Wine and Women Mirth and Laughter Sermons and soda-water the day after.
Fare thee well! and if for ever Still for ever fare thee well.
Let us have wine and woman mirth and laughter. Sermons and soda-water the day after.
Fair Greece! sad relic of departed worth! Immortal though no more though fallen great!
All who would win joy must share it happiness was born a twin.
Maid of Athens ere we part Give oh give me back my heart!
Nor ear can hear nor tongue can tell The tortures of that inward hell.
Admire exult despise laugh weep – for here There is such matter for all feelings: – Man! Thou pendulum betwixt a smile and tear.
Come lay thy head upon my breast And I will kiss thee into rest.
I am never long even in the society of her I love without yearning for the company of my lamp and my library.
Man’s love is of man’s life a thing apart ‘Tis woman’s whole existence.
And after all what is a lie? Tis but The truth in masquerade.
He was the mildest manner’d man That ever scuttled ship or cut a throat.
Soprano basso even the contralto Wished him five fathom under the Rialto.
For the night Shows stars and women in a better light.
It is the hour when from the boughs The nightingale’s high note is heard It is the hour when lovers’ vows Seem sweet in every whisper’d word.
Fare thee well! and if for ever Still for ever fare thee well.
The great art of life is sensation to feel that we exist even in pain.
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.
Gone – glimmering through the dream of things that were.
Society is now one polished horde Formed of two mighty tribes The Bores and the Bored.
If from Society we learn to live Tis Solitude should teach us how to die It hath no flatterers.
His speech was a fine sample on the whole Of rhetoric which the learn’d call “rigmarole.”
The “good old times”-all times when old are good.
Roll on thou deep and dark blue ocean – roll! Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain Man marks the earth with ruin – his control Stops with the shore.
Here’s a sigh to those who love me And a smile to those who hate And whatever sky’s above me Here’s a heart for every fate.
‘Tis strange – but true for truth is always strange Stranger than fiction.
Tis sweet to hear the watchdog’s honest bark Bay deep-mouth’d welcome as we draw near home.
Think you if Laura had been Petrarch’s wife He would have written sonnets all his life?
Few things surpass old wine and they may preach Who please the more because they preach in vain – Let us have wine and women mirth and laughter Sermons and soda-water the day after.
In her first passion woman loves her lover In all the others all she loves is love.
There is a tide in the affairs of women Which taken at the flood leads – God knows where.
Tis enough – Who listens once will listen twice Her heart be sure is not of ice And one refusal no rebuff.
Letter-writing is the only device for combining solitude with good company.
I have not loved the world nor the world me I have not flatter’d its rank breath nor bow’d To its idolatries a patient knee.
What deep wounds ever closed without a scar? The hearts bleed longest and but heal to wear That which disfigures it.
Ah! happy years! once more who would not be a boy!
If we must have a tyrant, let him at least be a gentleman who has been bred to the business, and let us fall by the axe and not by the butcher’s cleaver.
Love will find a way through paths where wolves fear to prey.
There is pleasure in the pathless woods, there is rapture in 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 may, and often does, grow into love, but love never subsides into friendship.
I have great hopes that we shall love each other all our lives as much as if we had never married at all.
A celebrity is one who is known to many persons he is glad he doesn’t know.
This is the patent age of new inventions for killing bodies, and for saving souls. All propagated with the best intentions.
I am about to be married, and am of course in all the misery of a man in pursuit of happiness.
All who joy would win must share it. Happiness was born a Twin.
A man of eighty has outlived probably three new schools of painting, two of architecture and poetry and a hundred in dress.
A woman should never be seen eating or drinking, unless it be lobster salad and Champagne, the only true feminine and becoming viands.
There’s naught, no doubt, so much the spirit calms as rum and true religion.
Women hate everything which strips off the tinsel of sentiment, and they are right, or it would rob them of their weapons.
Man, being reasonable, must get drunk; the best of life is but intoxication.
The ‘good old times’ – all times when old are good.
Sorrow is knowledge, those that know the most must mourn the deepest, the tree of knowledge is not the tree of life.
Opinions are made to be changed – or how is truth to be got at?
For truth is always strange stranger than fiction.
The great art of life is sensation, to feel that we exist, even in pain.
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.
For what were all these country patriots born? To hunt, and vote, and raise the price of corn?
We are all selfish and I no more trust myself than others with a good motive.
Lovers may be – and indeed generally are – enemies, but they never can be friends, because there must always be a spice of jealousy and a something of Self in all their speculations.
I have no consistency, except in politics; and that probably arises from my indifference to the subject altogether.
Man is born passionate of body, but with an innate though secret tendency to the love of Good in his main-spring of Mind. But God help us all! It is at present a sad jar of atoms.
If I am fool, it is, at least, a doubting one; and I envy no one the certainty of his self-approved wisdom.
Though sages may pour out their wisdom’s treasure, there is no sterner moralist than pleasure.
Be thou the rainbow in the storms of life. The evening beam that smiles the clouds away, and tints tomorrow with prophetic ray.
Men think highly of those who rise rapidly in the world; whereas nothing rises quicker than dust, straw, and feathers.
I only go out to get me a fresh appetite for being alone.
Then stirs the feeling infinite, so felt In solitude, where we are least alone.
What is the worst of woes that wait on age? What stamps the wrinkle deeper on the brow? To view each loved one blotted from life’s page, And be alone on earth, as I am now.