Oh, nature's noblest gift, my grey goose quill, Slave of my thoughts, obedient to my will, Torn from the parent bird to form a pen, That mighty instrument of little men.

Then, fare thee well, deceitful Maid!

I have great hopes that we shall love each other all our lives as much as if we had never married at all.

Know ye not who would be free themselves must strike the blow? by their right arms the conquest must be wrought?

I do not believe in any religion, I will have nothing to do with immortality. We are miserable enough in this life without speculating upon another.

He learned the arts of riding, fencing, gunnery, And how to scale a fortress - or a nunnery.

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.