A quiet conscience makes one so serene.

I am so changeable, being everything by turns and nothing long - such a strange melange of good and evil.

Such hath it been--shall be--beneath the sun The many still must labour for the one.

Dreading that climax of all human ills the inflammation of his weekly bills.

That prose is a verse, and verse is a prose; convincing all, by demonstrating plain – poetic souls delight in prose insane

There is no passion, more spectral or fantastical than hate, not even its opposite, love, so peoples air, with phantoms, as this madness of the heart.

Sighing that Nature formed but one such man, and broke the die.