When we two parted In silence and tears, Half broken-hearted, To sever for years.

But quiet to quick bosoms is a hell.

But I hate things all fiction... there should always be some foundation of fact for the most airy fabric - and pure invention is but the talent of a liar.

I die but first I have possessed, And come what may, I have been blessed.

There's not a sea the passenger e'er pukes in, Turns up more dangerous breakers than the Euxine.

Yet truth will sometimes lend her noblest fires, And decorate the verse herself inspires: This fact, in virtue's name, let Crabbe attest,- Though Nature's sternest painter, yet the best.

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.