He had kept The whiteness of his soul, and thus men o'er him wept.

The keenest pangs the wretched find Are rapture to the dreary void, The leafless desert of the mind, The waste of feelings unemployed.

Near this spot are deposited the remains of one who possessed beauty without vanity, strength without insolence, courage without ferocity, and all the virtues of man, without his vices. This praise, which would be unmeaning flattery if inscribed over human ashes, is but a just tribute to the memory of Botswain, a dog.

Why do they call me misanthrope? Because They hate me, not I them.

Let none think to fly the danger for soon or late love is his own avenger.

I am never long, even in the society of her I love, without yearning for the company of my lamp and my library.

I awoke one morning and found myself famous.