What exile from himself can flee? To zones, though more and more remote, Still, still pursues, where'er I be, The blight of life--the demon Thought.

In England the only homage which they pay to Virtue - is hypocrisy.

Why I came here, I know not; where I shall go it is useless to inquire - in the midst of myriads of the living and the dead worlds, stars, systems, infinity, why should I be anxious about an atom?

Christians have burnt each other, quite persuaded. That all the Apostles would have done as they did.

The lapse of ages changes all things - time, language, the earth, the bounds of the sea, the stars of the sky, and every thing about, around, and underneath man, except man himself.

It is odd but agitation or contest of any kind gives a rebound to my spirits and sets me up for a time.

That music in itself, whose sounds are song, The poetry of speech.