And hope is but a dream of those that wake.
The end must justify the means.
Who breathes must suffer, and who thinks must mourn; And he alone is bless'd who ne'er was born.
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.
He's half absolv'd Who has confess'd.
Hope is but the dream of those who wake.
They never taste who always drink They always talk who never think.
Similes are like songs of love: They much describe they nothing prove.
For, when with beauty we can virtue join, We paint the semblance of a form divine.
Hope is but the dream of those that wake.
Hopes are but the dreams of those that wake.
