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The heart will break, but broken live on.
Death, so called, is a thing which makes men weep, And yet a third of life is passed in sleep.
Men think highly of those who rise rapidly in the world whereas nothing rises quicker than dust, straw, and feathers.
Friendship may, and often does, grow into love, but love never subsides into friendship.
Who loves, raves.
Friendship is Love without his wings!
Absence – that common cure of love.
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.
This man is freed from servile bands, Of hope to rise, or fear to fall Lord of himself, though not of lands, And leaving nothing, yet hath all.
All who joy would win must share it. Happiness was born a Twin.