Do you believe your heart to be, indeed, so hardened, that you can look without emotion on the suffering, to which you would condemn me?

There is no accounting for tastes.

Happiness arises in a state of peace, not of tumult.

Never will I give my hand where my heart does not accompany it.

When the mind has once begun to yield to the weakness of superstition, trifles impress it with the force of conviction.

How despicable is that humanity, which can be contented to pity, where it might assuage!

Fate sits on these dark battlements and frowns, And as the portal opens to receive me, A voice in hollow murmurs through the courts Tells of a nameless deed.