I would jump down Etna for any public good - but I hate a mawkish popularity.

My love is selfish. I cannot breathe without you.

The Public - a thing I cannot help looking upon as an enemy, and which I cannot address without feelings of hostility.

Give me books, French wine, fruit, fine weather and a little music played out of doors by somebody I do not know.

And when thou art weary I'll find thee a bed, Of mosses and flowers to pillow thy head.

To Hope "When by my solitary hearth I sit, And hateful thoughts enwrap my soul in gloom; When no fair dreams before my 'mind's eye' flit, And the bare heath of life presents no bloom; Sweet Hope, ethereal balm upon me shed, And wave thy silver pinions o'er my head.

Talking of Pleasure, this moment I was writing with one hand, and with the other holding to my Mouth a Nectarine - how good how fine. It went down all pulpy, slushy, oozy, all its delicious embonpoint melted down my throat like a large, beatified Strawberry.