But as to women, who can penetrate the real sufferings of their she condition? Man's very sympathy with their estate has much of selfishness and more suspicion. Their love, their virtue, beauty, education, but form good housekeepers, to breed a nation.

Exhausting thought, And hiving wisdom with each studious year.

If I don't write to empty my mind, I go mad. As to that regular, uninterrupted love of writing. I do not understand it. I feel it as a torture, which I must get rid of, but never as a pleasure. On the contrary, I think composition a great pain.

Italia! O Italia! thou who hast The fatal gift of beauty.

So sweet the blush of bashfulness, E'en pity scarce can wish it less!

I had a dream, which was not at all a dream.

'Tis pleasant, sure, to see one's name in print. A book's a book, although there's nothing in 't.