I almost wish we were butterflies and liv'd but three summer days - three such days with you I could fill with more delight than fifty common years could ever contain.

I would sooner fail than not be among the greatest.

All clean and comfortable I sit down to write.

What is more gentle than a wind is summer?

Do you not see how necessary a world of pains and troubles is to school an intelligence and make it a soul?

It ought to come like the leaves to the trees, or it better not come at all.

I never knew before, what such a love as you have made me feel, was; I did not believe in it; my Fancy was afraid of it, lest it should burn me up. But if you will fully love me, though there may be some fire, 'twill not be more than we can bear when moistened and bedewed with Pleasures.