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.

All Heaven and Earth are still, though not in sleep, But breathless, as we grow when feeling most.

I depart, Whither I know not; but the hour's gone by When Albion's lessening shores could grieve or glad mine eye.

Roll on, deep and dark blue ocean, roll. Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain. Man marks the earth with ruin, but his control stops with the shore.

Accursed be the city where the laws would stifle nature's!

He was a man of his times. with one virtue and a thousand crimes. (The Corsair)

Had sigh'd to many, though he loved but one.