O, What A Tangled Web We Weave

Besides, Rose Bradwardine, Beautiful And Amiable As We Have Described Her, Had Not Precisely The Sort Of Beauty Or Merit Which Captivates A Romantic Imagination In Early Youth. She Was Too Frank, Too Confiding, Too Kind; Amiable Qualities, Undoubtedly, But Destructive Of The Marvellous, With Which A Youth Of Imagination Delights To Dress The Empress Of His Affections.

We Are Like The Herb Which Flourisheth Most When It Is Most Trampled On.

Call It Not Vain: They Do Not Err Who Say That When The Poet Dies Mute Nature Mourns Her Worshipper, And Celebrates His Obsequies.

There Is A Vulgar Incredulity, Which In Historical Matters, As Well As In Those Of Religion, Finds It Easier To Doubt Than To Examine.

A Thousand Fearful Images And Dire Suggestions Glance Along The Mind When It Is Moody And Discontented With Itself. Command Them To Stand And Show Themselves, And You Presently Assert The Power Of Reason Over Imagination.