I cannot describe to you the despairing sensation of trying to do something for a man who seems incapable or unwilling to do anything further for himself.

Damn description, it is always disgusting.

Still from the fount of joy's delicious springs Some bitter o'er the flowers its bubbling venom flings.

Like the measles, love is most dangerous when it comes late in life.

I love the language, it sounds as if it should be writ on satin with syllables which breathe of the sweet South

The dome of thought, the palace of the soul.

I really cannot know whether I am or am not the Genius you are pleased to call me, but I am very willing to put up with the mistake, if it be one. It is a title dearly enough bought by most men, to render it endurable, even when not quite clearly made out, which it never can be till the Posterity, whose decisions are merely dreams to ourselves, has sanctioned or denied it, while it can touch us no further.