Oh who can tell, save he whose heart hath tried. - Lord Byron

A timid mind is apt to mistake every scratch for a mortal wound.

And mine’s a bubble not blown up for praise, But just to play with, as an infant plays.

The World, which at the worst’s a glorious blunder — If it be Chance; or if it be according
To the old Text, still better: — lest it should
Turn out so, we’ll say nothing ’gainst the wording,
As several people think such hazards rude.
They’re right; our days are too brief for affording
Space to dispute what no one ever could
Decide, and every body one day will
Know very clearly — or at least lie still.