It is the misfortune of poetry, to be seldom safely enjoyed by those who enjoy it completely.

There seems almost a general wish of descrying the capacity and undervaluing the labour of the novelist, and of slighting the performances which have only genius, wit, and taste to recommend them.

How wonderful, how very wonderful the operations of time, and the changes of the human mind!

Oh! write, write. Finish it at once. Let there be an end of this suspense. Fix, commit, condemn yourself.

I do not cough for my own amusement.

it is a shocking trick for a young person to be always lolling upon a sofa.

I am excessively diverted.