By all means use some time to be alone.

Accept a miracle, instead of wit See two dull lines, with Stanhope's pencil writ.

Souls made of fire, and children of the sun, With whom revenge is virtue.

Not all the pride of beauty; Those eyes, that tell us what the sun is made of; Those lips, whose touch is to be bought with life; Those hills of driven snow, which seen are felt: All these possessed are nought, but as they are The proof, the substance of an inward passion, And the rich plunder of a taken heart.

Tis immortality, 'tis that alone, Amid life's pains, abasements, emptiness, The soul can comfort, elevate, and fill. That only, and that amply this performs.

When men once reach their autumn, sickly joys fall off apace, as yellow leaves from trees

An angel's arm can't snatch me from the grave; legions of angels can't confine me there.