There's music in the sighing of a reed; There's music in the gushing of a rill; There's music in all things, if men had ears; The earth is but the music of the spheres.

I have imbibed such a love for money that I keep some sequins in a drawer to count, and cry over them once a week.

There is no passion, more spectral or fantastical than hate, not even its opposite, love, so peoples air, with phantoms, as this madness of the heart.

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

The reading or non-reading a book will never keep down a single petticoat.

The music, and the banquet, and the wine-- The garlands, the rose odors, and the flowers, The sparkling eyes, and flashing ornaments-- The white arms and the raven hair--the braids, And bracelets; swan-like bosoms, and the necklace, An India in itself, yet dazzling not.

Parting day Dies like the dolphin, whom each pang imbues With a new colour as it gasps away, The last still loveliest, till-'t is gone, and all is gray.