Rough Johnson, the great moralist.

Friendship may, and often does, grow into love, but love never subsides into friendship.

I think the worst woman that ever existed would have made a man of very passable reputation -- they are all better than us and their faults such as they are must originate with ourselves.

My altars are the mountains and the ocean.

No more we meet in yonder bowers Absence has made me prone to roving; But older, firmer hearts than ours, Have found monotony in loving.

My days are in the yellow leaf; The flowers and fruits of love are gone; The worm, the canker, and the grief, Are mine alone!

Man is in part divine, A troubled stream from a pure source.