Perhaps the early grave Which men weep over may be meant to save.

Eternal Spirit of the chainless Mind! Brightest in dungeons, Liberty! thou art, For there thy habitation is the heart-- The heart which love of thee alone can bind; And when thy sons to fetters are consign'd-- To fetters and damp vault's dayless gloom, Their country conquers with their martyrdom.

But I hate things all fiction... there should always be some foundation of fact for the most airy fabric - and pure invention is but the talent of a liar.

You gave me the key to your heart, my love, then why did you make me knock?

Shelley is truth itself and honour itself notwithstanding his out-of-the-way notions about religion.

I am acquainted with no immaterial sensuality so delightful as good acting.

For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast, And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed; And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill, And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew still!