Then stirs the feeling infinite, so felt In solitude, where we are least alone.

Oh! might I kiss those eyes of fire, A million scarce would quench desire; Still would I steep my lips in bliss, And dwell an age on every kiss; Nor then my soul should sated be, Still would I kiss and cling to thee: Nought should my kiss from thine dissever, Still would we kiss and kiss for ever; E'en though the numbers did exceed The yellow harvest's countless seed; To part would be a vain endeavour: Could I desist? -ah! never-never.

Go let thy less than woman's hand Assume the distaff not the brand.

Whatsoever thy birth, Thou wert a beautiful thought, and softly bodied forth.

There is pleasure in the pathless woods, there is rapture in the lonely shore, there is society where none intrudes, by the deep sea, and music in its roar; I love not Man the less, but Nature more.

Why do they call me misanthrope? Because They hate me, not I them.

A thousand years may scare form a state. An hour may lay it in ruins.