Old man! 'Tis not difficult to die.

I have had, and may have still, a thousand friends, as they are called, in life, who are like one's partners in the waltz of this world -not much remembered when the ball is over.

Why I came here, I know not; where I shall go it is useless to inquire - in the midst of myriads of the living and the dead worlds, stars, systems, infinity, why should I be anxious about an atom?

If from society we learn to live, solitude should teach us how to die.

I shall soon be six-and-twenty. Is there anything in the future that can possibly console us for not being always twenty-five?

Self praise is no praise at all.

For a man to become a poet (witness Petrarch and Dante), he must be in love, or miserable.