Oh that the desert were my dwelling-place, With one fair spirit for my minister

In England the only homage which they pay to Virtue - is hypocrisy.

Nothing so fretful, so despicable as a Scribbler, see what I am, and what a parcel of Scoundrels I have brought about my ears, and what language I have been obliged to treat them with to deal with them in their own way; - all this comes of Authorship.

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.

Between two worlds life hovers like a star, twixt night and morn, upon the horizon's verge.

And what is writ is writ - / Would it were worthier!

Whenever I meet with anything agreeable in this world it surprises me so much - and pleases me so much (when my passions are not interested in one way or the other) that I go on wondering for a week to come.