Oh, Christ! it is a goodly sight to see What Heaven hath done for this delicious land!

Oh, nature's noblest gift, my grey goose quill, Slave of my thoughts, obedient to my will, Torn from the parent bird to form a pen, That mighty instrument of little men.

It is very iniquitous to make me pay my debts - you have no idea of the pain it gives one.

I love the language, it sounds as if it should be writ on satin with syllables which breathe of the sweet South

Retirement accords with the tone of my mind; I will not descend to a world I despise.

Yes, love indeed is light from heaven; A spark of that immortal fire with angels shared, by Allah given to lift from earth our low desire.

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.