Romances I ne'er read like those I have seen.

Pure friendship's well-feigned blush.

If I don't write to empty my mind, I go mad. As to that regular, uninterrupted love of writing. I do not understand it. I feel it as a torture, which I must get rid of, but never as a pleasure. On the contrary, I think composition a great pain.

Death, so called, is a thing which makes men weep, And yet a third of life is passed in sleep.

There's not a sea the passenger e'er pukes in, Turns up more dangerous breakers than the Euxine.

A mighty mass of brick, and smoke, and shipping, Dirty and dusty, but as wide as eye Could reach, with here and there a sail just skipping In sight, then lost amidst the forestry Of masts; a wilderness of steeples peeping On tiptoe through their sea-coal canopy; A huge, dun cupola, like a fools-cap crown On a fool's head - and there is London Town.

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