The devil hath not, in all his quiver's choice, An arrow for the heart like a sweet voice.

I am the very slave of circumstance And impulse borne away with every breath! Misplaced upon the throne misplaced in life. I know not what I could have been, but feel I am not what I should be let it end.

Pure friendship's well-feigned blush.

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

But what is Hope? Nothing but the paint on the face of Existence; the least touch of truth rubs it off, and then we see what a hollow-cheeked harlot we have got hold of.

We have fools in all sects, and impostors in most; why should I believe mysteries no one can understand, because written by men who chose to mistake madness for inspiration and style themselves Evangelicals?

Hatred is the madness of the heart.