I have fled my country and gone to the heather.

Vain are the thousand creeds That move men's hearts, unutterably vain; Worthless as withered weeds, Or idlest froth amid the boundless main.

Your presence is a moral poison that would contaminate the most virtuous

I'm wearying to escape into that glorious world, and to be always there; not seeing it dimly through tears, and yearning for it through the walls of an aching heart; but really with it, and in it.

And from the midst of cheerless gloom I passed to bright unclouded day.

He'll love and hate equally under cover, and esteem it a species of impertinence to loved or hated again.

I cannot love thee; thou 'rt worse than thy brother. Go, say thy prayers, child, and ask God's pardon. I doubt thy mother and I must rue that we ever reared thee!