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Better be courted and jilted Than never be courted at all.

Thomas Campbell

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Thomas Campbell
Age: 66 †
Born: 1777
Born: July 27
Died: 1844
Died: June 15
Journalist
Musicologist
Poet
Writer
Glasgow
Scotland
Courted
Wooing
Better
Never
Jilted

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What millions died that Caesar might be great!
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Our land, the first garden of liberty's tree-- It has been, and shall be, the land of the free.
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O star-eyed Science, hast thou wander'd there, To waft us home the message of despair?
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For Beauty's tears are lovelier than her smile.
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On the green banks of Shannon, when Sheelah was nigh, No blithe Irish lad was so happy as I, No harp like my own could so cheerily play, And wherever I went was my poor dog Tray.
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The patriot's blood is the seed of Freedom's tree.
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Beauty's witching sway is now to me a star that's fallen-a dream that's passed away.
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Never wedding, ever wooing, Still a lovelorn heart pursuing, Read you not the wrong you're doing In my cheek's pale hue? All my life with sorrow strewing Wed or cease to woo.
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Fundamental assumptions in general and scientific assumptions in particular are so hard to overturn because they are based on belief. Beliefs are so hard to overcome because they are irrational and therefore do not yield to logical argument.
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The proud, the cold untroubled heart of stone, that never mused on sorrow but its own.
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Ye mariners of England! That guard our native seas Whose flag has braved a thousand years, The battle and the breeze!
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A stoic of the woods,--a man without a tear.
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On Linden, when the sun was low, All bloodless lay the untrodden snow, And dark as winter was the flow Of Iser, rolling rapidly.
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What though my winged hours of bliss have been, Like angel visits, few and far between.
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Who hail thee, Man! the pilgrim of the day, spouse of the worm, and brother of the clay.
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The prophet's mantle, ere his flight began, Dropt on the world--a sacred gift to man.
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He scorn'd his own, who felt another's woe.
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Triumphal arch, that fill'st the sky When storms prepare to part, I ask not proud Philosophy To teach me what thou art.
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The popularity of that baby-faced boy, who possessed not even the elements of a good actor, was a hallucination in the public mind, and a disgrace to our theatrical history.
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The combat deepens. On, ye brave, Who rush to glory or the grave! Wave, Munich! all thy banners wave, And charge with all thy chivalry!
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