Send me no more reviews of any kind. I will read no more of evil or good in that line. Walter Scott has not read a review of himself for thirteen years .

The poor dog, in life the firmest friend. The first to welcome, foremost to defend.

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.

What a strange thing is man! And what a stranger is woman.

We are all the fools of time and terror: Days Steal on us and steal from us; yet we live, Loathing our life, and dreading still to die.

You gave me the key to your heart, my love, then why did you make me knock?

The sight of blood to crowds begets the thirst of more, As the first wine-cup leads to the long revel.