I should like to know who has been carried off, except poor dear me - I have been more ravished myself than anybody since the Trojan war.

Such hath it been--shall be--beneath the sun The many still must labour for the one.

So do the dark in soul expire, Or live like scorpion girt by fire; So writhes the mind remorse hath riven, Unfit for earth, undoom'd for heaven, Darkness above, despair beneath, Around it flame, within it death.

I am as comfortless as a pilgrim with peas in his shoes - and as cold as Charity, Chastity or any other Virtue.

Men think highly of those who rise rapidly in the world; whereas nothing rises quicker than dust, straw, and feathers.

I only know we loved in vain; I only feel-farewell! farewell!

Ye stars! which are the poetry of heaven!