Friend of my bosom, thou more than a brother, Why wert thou not born in my father's dwelling?

You may derive thoughts from others; your way of thinking, the mould in which your thoughts are cast, must be your own.

I cannot sit and think; books think for me.

My only books Were woman's looks,- And folly 's all they 've taught me.

I conceive disgust at these impertinent and misbecoming familiarities inscribed upon your ordinary tombstone.

It is good to love the unknown.

We grow gray in our spirit long before we grow gray in our hair.