Even now, nature is the only flame, on which the poetic spirit feeds; from it alone it draws all its power, to it alone it speaks even in the artificial, in the man engaged in culture.
To rankling poison hast thou turned in me the milk of human kindness.
I am my own heaven and hell!
We are too prone to find fault; let us look for some of the perfections.
Misery travels free through the whole world!
O jealousy! thou magnifier of trifles.