Revenge, revenge, Timotheus cries, See the Furies arise!

Our souls sit close and silently within, And their own web from their own entrails spin; And when eyes meet far off, our sense is such, That, spider-like, we feel the tenderest touch.

But far more numerous was the herd of such, Who think too little, and who talk too much.

Fiction is of the essence of poetry as well as of painting; there is a resemblance in one of human bodies, things, and actions which are not real, and in the other of a true story by fiction.

Men met each other with erected look, The steps were higher that they took; Friends to congratulate their friends made haste, And long inveterate foes saluted as they pass'd.

Genius must be born, and never can be taught.

Here lies my wife: here let her lie! Now she's at rest, and so am I.