There is no sinner like a young saint.
'Twas but a dream, yet by my heart I knew, Which still was panting, part of it was true: Oh how I strove the rest to have believed; Ashamed and angry to be undeceived!
Faith, Sir, we are here today and gone tomorrow.
Where there is no novelty, there can be no curiosity.
Jealousy, the old worm that bites.
All I ask, is the privilege for my masculine part the poet in me.... If I must not, because of my sex, have this freedom... I lay down my quill and you shall hear no more of me.