Tyranny is for the worst of treasons.

Eternity forbids thee to forget.

I learned to love despair.

The light of love, the purity of grace, The mind, the Music breathing from her face, The heart whose softness harmonised the whole — And, oh! that eye was in itself a Soul!

If I don't write to empty my mind, I go mad. As to that regular, uninterrupted love of writing. I do not understand it. I feel it as a torture, which I must get rid of, but never as a pleasure. On the contrary, I think composition a great pain.

What deep wounds ever closed without a scar? The hearts bleed longest, and heals but to wear That which disfigures it.

Talent may be in time forgiven, but genius never