Never to talk to ones self is a form of hypocrisy
Critics are already made.
This is to be along; this, this is solitude!
Romances paint at full length people's wooing. But only give a bust of marriages.
Time strips our illusions of their hue, And one by one in turn, some grand mistake Casts off its bright skin yearly like the snake.
If I don't write to empty my mind, I go mad.