I.
Where, O where
Hath gentle Peace found rest?
Builds she in bower of lady fair?—
But Love — he hath possession there;
Not long is she the guest.

II.

Sits she crown’d
Beneath a pictured dome?
But there Ambition keeps his ground
And Fear and Envy Stalk around;
This cannot be her home!

III.

Will she hide
In scholar’s pensive cell?
But he already hath his bride:
Him Melancholy sits beside—
With her she may not dwell!

IV.

Now and then,
Peace, wandering lays her head
On regal couch, in captive’s den—
But nowhere finds she rest with men,
Or only with the dead!

From the silence and deep peace of this saintly summer night — from the pathetic blending of this sweet moonlight, dawnlight, dreamlight — from the manly tenderness of this flattering, whispering, murmuring love — suddenly as from the woods and fields — suddenly as from the chambers of the air opening in revelation — suddenly as from the ground yawning at her feet, leaped upon her, with the flashing of cataracts, Death, the crowned phantom, with all the equipage of his terrors, and the tiger-roar of his voice.

The divisions between all the different stripes of desperado and the regular run-of-the-mill inhabitants were so fine and subtle that it was nearly impossible to identify a decent man.

Ah! what a vulgar thing does courage seem when we see nations buying and selling it for a shilling a day. Ah! what a sublime thing does courage seem when some fearful summons on the great deeps of life carries a man, as if running before a hurricane, up to the giddy crest of some tumultuous crisis, from which lie two courses, and a voice says to him audibly, “One way lies hope; take the other, and mourn forever!”

In short, they were gambling on their luck, and luck is not to be coerced.

A duty few men are fit for, but you were born for.

She who sinks under real disappointment lacks philosophy; but she who sinks under a fancied one lacks purpose.

There, Watson! What do you think of pure reason and its fruit? If the green-grocer had such a thing as a laurel wreath, I should send Billy round for it.

And then the various forms He cast
Gross organs first and finer last;
No one at once evolved, but all
By even touches grew and small
Degrees advanced, till, shade by shade,
To match all living things He’d made
Females, complete in all their parts
Except (His clay gave out) their hearts.
“No matter,” Satan cried; “with speed
I’ll fetch the very hearts they need”–
So flew away and soon brought back
The number needed, in a sack.
That night Earth rang with sounds of strife–
Ten million males had each a wife;
That night sweet Peace her pinions spread
O’er Hell – ten million devils dead!

Out in the street it seemed to Rieux that the night was full of whispers. Somewhere in the black depths above the street-lamps there was a low soughing that brought to his mind that unseen flail threshing incessantly the languid air of which Paneloux had spoken.

Ignota navitas
Occulta Mors

…he now all at once, while he rode, encased himself, body and soul, in the iron creed of the fatalist; and connecting destiny in his mind with the inferred will of God, defied any missile to touch him, unless it should come with the warrant of a providential and foregone decree.

C’est magnifique — mais ce n’est pas le guerre.

A damp heart must be a foul thing to be sure. But who ever heard of one?

They say a Witch will sail in a Sieve — But I believe the Devil wou’d not venture aboard o’your Conscience.

Ashes always come after Blaze.

A Nymph and a Swain to Apollo once pray’d,
The Swain had been jilted, the Nymph been betray’d:
Their Intent was to try if his Oracle knew
E’er a Nymph that was Chaste, or a Swain that was true.

Apollo was mute, and had like t’have been pos’d,
But sagely at length he this Secret disclos’d:
He alone won’t betray in whom none will Confide:
And the Nymph may be Chaste that has never been try’d.

O see me no more,— for thou wert born amongst Rocks, suckl’d by Whales, cradled in a Tempest, and whistled to by the Winds; and thou art come forth with Fins and Scales, and three Rows of Teeth, a most outragious Fish of Prey.

Valentine: …I lov’d a Woman, and lov’d her so long, that I found out a strange thing: I found out what a Woman was good for.
Tattle: Ay, prithee, what’s that?
Valentine: Why, to keep a Secret.
Tattle: O Lord!
Valentine: O exceeding good to keep a Secret: For tho’ she should tell, yet she is not to be believ’d.

Besides, you are a Woman, you must never speak what you think: Your Words must contradict your Thoughts; but your Actions must contradict your Words.

Well, if he be but as great a Sea-Beast, as she is a Land-Monster, we shall have a most amphibious Breed —

A loaf of bread and a clean collar; what does man want more?

Fondlewife: Come, Sir, who are you, in the first place? And what are you?
Bellmour: A Whore-master.
Fondlewife: Very Concise.