In hope to merit heaven by making earth a hell.

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

This is to be along; this, this is solitude!

He who grown aged in this world of woe, In deeds, not years, piercing the depths of life, So that no wonder waits him.

Years steal fire from the mind as vigor from the limb; and life's enchanted cup but sparkles near the brim.

Constancy... that small change of love, which people exact so rigidly, receive in such counterfeit coin, and repay in baser metal.

I have had, and may have still, a thousand friends, as they are called, in life, who are like one's partners in the waltz of this world -not much remembered when the ball is over.