Thou art a dreaming thing, A fever of thyself.
What is more gentle than a wind is summer?
The genius of Shakespeare was an innate university.
I have two luxuries to brood over in my walks, your loveliness and the hour of my death. O that I could have possession of them both in the same minute.
All clean and comfortable I sit down to write.
Pensive they sit, and roll their languid eyes.