In commitment, we dash the hopes of a thousand potential selves.

But quiet to quick bosoms is a hell.

I do detest everything which is not perfectly mutual.

They truly mourn, that mourn without a witness.

Near this spot are deposited the remains of one who possessed beauty without vanity, strength without insolence, courage without ferocity, and all the virtues of man, without his vices. This praise, which would be unmeaning flattery if inscribed over human ashes, is but a just tribute to the memory of Botswain, a dog.

Though I love my country, I do not love my countrymen.

Where are the forms the sculptor's soul hath seized? In him alone, Can nature show as fair?