Glory, like the phoenix 'midst her fires, Exhales her odours, blazes, and expires. 
Tis sweet to listen as the night winds creep From leaf to leaf. 
Self-love for ever creeps out, like a snake, to sting anything which happens to stumble upon it. 
Every day confirms my opinion on the superiority of a vicious life - and if Virtue is not its own reward I don't know any other stipend annexed to it. 
I am not nowThat which I have been.
Exhausting thought, And hiving wisdom with each studious year. 
I have a notion that gamblers are as happy as most people - being always excited. 
To chase the glowing hours with flying feet. 
None are so desolate but something dear, Dearer than self, possesses or possess'd A thought, and claims the homage of a tear. 
Kill a man's family, and he may brook it, But keep your hands out of his breeches' pocket. 
Eat, drink and love ... the rest is not worth a nickel 
I stood among them, but not of them: in a shroud of thoughts which were not their thoughts. 
No more we meet in yonder bowers Absence has made me prone to roving; But older, firmer hearts than ours, Have found monotony in loving. 
Whatsoever thy birth, thou were a beautiful thought and softly bodied forth. 
I die but first I have possessed, And come what may, I have been blessed. 
Bologna is celebrated for producing popes, painters, and sausage. 
Think not I am what I appear. 
O Gold! I still prefer thee unto paper, which makes bank credit like a bark of vapour. 
Folly loves the martyrdom of fame. 
I awoke one morning and found myself famous. 
Time strips our illusions of their hue, And one by one in turn, some grand mistake Casts off its bright skin yearly like the snake. 
Truth is a gem that is found at a great depth; whilst on the surface of the world all things are weighed by the false scale of custom. 
I speak not of men's creeds - they rest between Man and his Maker. 
That low vice, curiosity! 
Grieving, if aught inanimate e'er grieves, Over the unreturning brave. 
Now I shall go to sleep. Goodnight. 
Self praise is no praise at all. 
And I would hear yet once before I perish The voice which was my music ... Speak to me! 
This is the patent age of new inventions for killing bodies, and for saving souls. All propagated with the best intentions. 
Tis said that persons living on annuities Are longer lived than others. 
Ah, happy years! once more who would not be a boy? 
Dim with the mist of years, gray flits the shade of power. 
I see before me the gladiator lie. 
No hand can make the clock strike for me the hours that are passed. 
Grief should be the instructor of the wise; Sorrow is Knowledge. 
Good work and joyous play go hand in hand. When play stops, old age begins. Play keeps you from taking life too seriously. 
It is the lava of the imagination whose eruption prevents an earthquake. 
And gentle winds and waters near, make music to the lonely ear. 
Had sigh'd to many, though he loved but one. 
But there are wanderers o'er Eternity Whose bark drives on and on, and anchor'd ne'er shall be. 
There is a tear for all who die, A mourner o'er the humblest grave. 
Mont Blanc is the monarch of mountains; They crown'd him long ago On a throne of rocks, in a robe of clouds, With a diadem of snow. 
A quiet conscience makes one so serene. 
I have no consistency, except in politics; and that probably arises from my indifference to the subject altogether. 
That famish'd people must be slowly nurst, and fed by spoonfuls, else they always burst. 
Tis not on youth's smooth cheek the blush alone, which fades so fast, But the tender bloom of heart is gone, ere youth itself be past. 
Rough Johnson, the great moralist. 
Fill high the cup with Samian wine! 
Champagne with its foaming whirls/As white as Cleopatra's pearls. 
My native land, good night! 
I love the language, it sounds as if it should be writ on satin with syllables which breathe of the sweet South 
Cervantes smiled Spain's chivalry away; A single laugh demolished the right arm Of his country. 
It is very certain that the desire of life prolongs it. 
Dead scandals form good subjects for dissection. 
What is Death, so it be but glorious? 'Tis a sunset; And mortals may be happy to resemble The Gods but in decay. 
In hope to merit heaven by making earth a hell. 
We are all selfish and I no more trust myself than others with a good motive. 
The French courage proceeds from vanity 
Land of lost gods and godlike men. 
So bright the tear in Beauty's eye, Love half regrets to kiss it dry. 