Pensive they sit, and roll their languid eyes.

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.

O for the gentleness of old Romance, the simple planning of a minstrel's song!

Here lies one whose name was writ in water.

Literary men are . . . a perpetual priesthood.

I must choose between despair and Energy──I choose the latter.

Let us open our leaves like a flower, and be passive and receptive.