And hope is but a dream of those that wake.
The end must justify the means.
He's half absolv'd Who has confess'd.
Fantastic tyrant of the amorous heart. How hard thy yoke, how cruel thy dart. Those escape your anger who refuse your sway, and those are punished most, who most obey.
They never taste who always drink They always talk who never think.
Who breathes must suffer, and who thinks must mourn; And he alone is bless'd who ne'er was born.
Hope is but the dream of those that wake.
Similes are like songs of love: They much describe they nothing prove.
Hope is but the dream of those who wake.
For, when with beauty we can virtue join, We paint the semblance of a form divine.
Hopes are but the dreams of those that wake.
