A timid mind is apt to mistake every scratch for a mortal wound.

Her great merit is finding out mine; there is nothing so amiable as discernment.

We are all the fools of time and terror: Days Steal on us and steal from us; yet we live, Loathing our life, and dreading still to die.

One certainly has a soul; but how it came to allow itself to be enclosed in a body is more than I can imagine.

Egeria! sweet creation of some heart Which found no mortal resting-place so fair As thine ideal breast.

This man is freed from servile bands, Of hope to rise, or fear to fall; Lord of himself, though not of lands, And leaving nothing, yet hath all.

What exile from himself can flee? To zones, though more and more remote, Still, still pursues, where'er I be, The blight of life--the demon Thought.