Most men call fretting a minor fault, a foible, and not a vice. There is no vice except drunkenness which can so utterly destroy the peace, the happiness of a hoe.

O month when they who love must love and wed.

I know the lands are lit, with all the autumn blaze of Goldenrod.

Stain my eyes as I may, on all sides all is black.

Bee to the blossom, moth to the flame; Each to his passion; what's in a name?

There is nothing so skillful in its own defense as imperious pride.

I shall be found with 'Indians' engraved on my brain when I am dead. A fire has been kindled within me, which will never go out.