That Music In Itself, Whose Sounds Are

[armenian] Is A Rich Language, However, And Would Amply Repay Any One The Trouble Of Learning 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 Only Know We Loved In Vain; I Only Feel-farewell! Farewell!

What Is The End Of Fame? 'tis But To Fill A Certain Portion Of Uncertain Paper: Some Liken It To Climbing Up A Hill, Whose Summit, Like All Hills, Is Lost In Vapour: For This Men Write, Speak, Preach, And Heroes Kill, And Bards Burn What They Call Their "midnight Taper," To Have, When The Original Is Dust, A Name, A Wretched Picture, And Worse Bust.

When We Two Parted In Silence And Tears, Half Broken-hearted, To Sever For Years.