I shall soon be six-and-twenty. Is there anything in the future that can possibly console us for not being always twenty-five?

Heaven gives its favourites-early death.

What is fame? The advantage of being known by people of whom you yourself know nothing, and for whom you care as little.

What exile from himself can flee? To zones, though more and more remote, Still, still pursues, where'er I be, The blight of life--the demon Thought.

I live not in myself, but I become Portion of that around me: and to me High mountains are a feeling, but the hum of human cities torture.

I am ashes where once I was fire.

The fact is that my wife if she had common sense would have more power over me than any other whatsoever, for my heart always alights upon the nearest perch.