I do detest everything which is not perfectly mutual.

There is something pagan in me that I cannot shake off. In short, I deny nothing, but doubt everything.

My days are in the yellow leaf; The flowers and fruits of love are gone; The worm, the canker, and the grief, Are mine alone!

Tis not on youth's smooth cheek the blush alone, which fades so fast, But the tender bloom of heart is gone, ere youth itself be past.

You should have a softer pillow than my heart.

No words suffice the secret soul to show, For truth denies all eloquence to woe.

The reading or non-reading a book will never keep down a single petticoat.