Ye stars! which are the poetry of heaven!

Physicians mend or end us, Secundum artem; but although we sneer - In health - when ill we call them to attend us, Without the least propensity to jeer

I am surrounded here by parsons and methodists, but as you will see, not infested with the mania.

What deep wounds ever closed without a scar?

My altars are the mountains and the ocean.

I should like to know who has been carried off, except poor dear me - I have been more ravished myself than anybody since the Trojan war.

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.