I cannot conceive why people will always mix up my own character and opinions with those of the imaginary beings which, as a poet, I have the right and liberty to draw.
By Heaven! it is a splendid sight to see For one who hath no friend, no brother there.
Ah, happy years! once more who would not be a boy?
O Gold! I still prefer thee unto paper, which makes bank credit like a bark of vapour.
There is something pagan in me that I cannot shake off. In short, I deny nothing, but doubt everything.
Are not the mountains, waves, and skies as much a part of me, as I of them?