Oh what can ail thee, knight-at-arms, Alone and palely loitering?

Where are the songs of Spring? Aye, where are they? Think not of them; thou has thy music too.

I think we may class the lawyer in the natural history of monsters.

I love your hills and I love your dales, And I love your flocks a-bleating; but oh, on the heather to lie together, With both our hearts a-beating!

The world is too brutal for me-I am glad there is such a thing as the grave-I am sure I shall never have any rest till I get there.

The thought, the deadly thought of solitude.

I equally dislike the favor of the public with the love of a woman - they are both a cloying treacle to the wings of independence.