Many are poets, but without the name;For what is Poesy but to createFrom overfeeling Good or Ill; and aimAt an external life beyond our fate,And be the new Prometheus of new men,Bestowing fire from Heaven, and then, too late,Finding the pleasure given repaid with pain

Ada! sole daughter of my house and heart.

We are all selfish and I no more trust myself than others with a good motive.

There is, in fact, no law or government at all; and it is wonderful how well things go on without them.

Be warm, be pure, be amorous, but be chaste.

Shakespeare's name, you may depend on it, stands absurdly too high and will go down.

Alas! how deeply painful is all payment!