Nothing is finer for the purposes of great productions than a very gradual ripening of the intellectual powers.
Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips, bidding adieu
That queen of secrecy, the violet.
I will clamber through the clouds and exist.
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.
No sooner had I stepp'd into these pleasures Than I began to think of rhymes and measures: The air that floated by me seem'd to say 'Write! thou wilt never have a better day.