If in many of my productions terror has been the thesis, I maintain that terror is not of Germany, but of the soul.

I have, indeed, no abhorrence of danger, except in its absolute effect - in terror.

Odors have an altogether peculiar force, in affecting us through association; a force differing essentially from that of objects addressing the touch, the taste, the sight or the hearing.

A poem in my opinion, is opposed to a work of science by having for its immediate object, pleasure, not truth.

The fever called "living" Is conquer'd at last.

The Merchant, to Secure His Treasure The merchant, to secure his treasure, Conveys it in a borrowed name: Euphelia serves to grace my measure, But Cloe is my real flame. My softest verse, my darling lyre Upon Euphelia's toilet lay - When Cloe noted her desire That I should sing, that I should play. My lyre I tune, my voice I raise, But with my numbers mix my sighs; And whilst I sing Euphelia's praise, I fix my soul on Cloe's eyes. Fair Cloe blushed; Euphelia frowned: I sung, and gazed; I played, and trembled: And Venus to the Loves around Remarked how ill we all dissembled.

From a proud tower in the town, Death looks gigantically down.