So do the dark in soul expire, Or live like scorpion girt by fire; So writhes the mind remorse hath riven, Unfit for earth, undoom'd for heaven, Darkness above, despair beneath, Around it flame, within it death.

In commitment, we dash the hopes of a thousand potential selves.

To withdraw myself from myself has ever been my sole, my entire, my sincere motive in scribbling at all.

But every fool describes, in these bright days, His wondrous journey to some foreign court, And spawns his quarto, and demands your praise,-- Death to his publisher, to him 'tis sport.

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

There is a tear for all who die, A mourner o'er the humblest grave.

I am so convinced of the advantages of looking at mankind instead of reading about them, . . . that I think there should be a law amongst us to set our young men abroad for a term among the few allies our wars have left us.