He shall never know how I love him: and that, not because he's handsome, Nelly, but because he is more myself than I am. Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same.

I pray every night that I may live after him; because I would rather be miserable than that he should be — that proves I love him better than myself.

I take so little interest in my daily life, that I hardly remember to eat and drink.

He might as well plant an oak in a flowerpot, and expect it to thrive, as imagine he can restore her to vigour in the soil of his shallow cares!

Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same.

And, even yet, I dare not let it languish, Dare not indulge in memory's rapturous pain; Once drinking deep of that divinest anguish, How could I seek the empty world again?

Proud people breed sad sorrows for themselves.