Quote

Peter was dull he was at first Dull - Oh, so dull - so very dull! Whether he talked, wrote, or rehearsed - Still with his dulness was he cursed - Dull -beyond all conception - dull.

Percy Bysshe Shelley

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Percy Bysshe Shelley
Age: 29 †
Born: 1792
Born: August 4
Died: 1822
Died: July 8
Linguist
Novelist
Playwright
Poet
Translator
Percy Byssche Shelley
Percy Shelley
Shelli Persi Bish
Stupid
Cursed
Whether
Talked
Stills
Peter
Still
Conception
Firsts
Stupidity
First
Dull
People
Wrote
Dulness
Beyond
Rehearsed

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And many more Destructions played In this ghastly masquerade, All disguised, even to the eyes, Like Bishops, lawyers, peers, or spies.
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Near that a dusty paint-box, some odd hooks, A half-burnt match, an ivory block, three books, Where conic sections, spherics, logarithms, To great Laplace, from Saunderson and Sims, Lie heaped in their harmonious disarray Of figures,-disentangle them who may.
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All spirits are enslaved which serve things evil
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You ought to love all mankind nay, every individual of mankind. You ought not to love the individuals of your domestic circles less, but to love those who exist beyond it more.
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The emptiness and folly of retaliation are apparent from every example which can be brought forward. Not only Jesus Christ, but the most eminent professors of every sect of philosophy, have reasoned against this futile superstition.
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The jealous keys of truth's eternal doors.
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I am not much of a hand at love songs, you see I mingle metaphysics with even this, but perhaps in this age of Philosophy that may be excused.
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I could lie down like a tired child, And weep away the life of care Which I have borne, and yet must bear.
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A God made by man undoubtedly has need of man to make himself known to man.
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When a man marries, dies, or turns Hindu, his best friends hear no more of him.
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The young moon has fed Her exhausted horn With the sunset's fire.
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Dar'st thou amid the varied multitude To live alone, an isolated thing?
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He has outsoared the shadow of our night envy and calumny and hate and pain, and that unrest which men miscall delight, can touch him not and torture not again from the contagion of the world's slow stain, he is secure.
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Underneath Day's azure eyes, Ocean's nursling, Venice lies, A peopled labyrinth of walls, Amphitrite's destined halls
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It is found easier, by the short-sighted victims of disease, to palliate their torments by medicine, than to prevent them by regimen
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Mild is the slow necessity of death The tranquil spirit fails beneath its grasp, Without a groan, almost without a fear, Resigned in peace to the necessity Calm as a voyager to some distant land, And full of wonder, full of hope as he.
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The Pilgrim of Eternity, whose fame Over his living head like heaven is bent, An early but enduring monument, Came, veiling all the lightnings of his song In sorrow.
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A husband and wife ought to continue united so long as they love each other. Any law which should bind them to cohabitation for one moment after the decay of their affection would be a most intolerable tyranny, and the most unworthy of toleration.
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Just a tender sense of my own process, that holds something of my connection with the divine.
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Thus suicidal selfishness, that blights The fairest feelings of the opening heart, Is destined to decay, whilst from the soil Shall spring all virtue, all delight, all love, And judgment cease to wage unnatural war With passion's unsubduable array.
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