Lovers may be and indeed generally are enemies, but they never can be friends, because there must always be a spice of jealousy and a something of Self in all their speculations.

A man must serve his time to every trade, Save censure-critics all are ready made. Take hackney'd jokes from Miller, got by rote With just enough learning to misquote.

I hate all pain, Given or received; we have enough within us The meanest vassal as the loftiest monarch, Not to add to each other's natural burden Of mortal misery.

My heart in passion, and my head on rhymes.

It is the lava of the imagination whose eruption prevents an earthquake.

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

So much alarmed that she is quite alarming