Much Madness Is Divinest Sense, To A

Two Seasons, It Is Said, Exist- The Summer Of The Just, And This Of Ours, Diversified With Prospect, And With Frost- May Not Our Second With Its First So Infinite Compare That We But Recollect The One The Other To Prefer?

Hope . . . Never Stops At All.

Which Anguish Was The Utterest--then-- To Perish, Or To Live?

A Little Madness In The Spring Is Wholesome Even For The King.

Beauty Is Not The Cause Of Something, It Is What It Is.