If I don't write to empty my mind, I go mad. As to that regular, uninterrupted love of writing. I do not understand it. I feel it as a torture, which I must get rid of, but never as a pleasure. On the contrary, I think composition a great pain.

Sweet is revenge-especially to women.

Sweet is old wine in bottles, ale in barrels.

A woman who gives any advantage to a man may expect a lover - but will sooner or later find a tyrant.

Self praise is no praise at all.

Thy decay's still impregnate with divinity.

Yet I did love thee to the last, As ferverently as thou, Who didst not change through all the past, And canst not alter now.