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

I have imbibed such a love for money that I keep some sequins in a drawer to count, and cry over them once a week.

The mind can make substance, and people planets of its own with beings brighter than have been, and give a breath to forms which can outlive all flesh.

Men love in haste, but they detest at leisure.

It is very iniquitous to make me pay my debts - you have no idea of the pain it gives one.

But words are things, and a small drop of ink, Falling like dew, upon a thought, produces That which makes thousands, perhaps millions, think.

I cannot help thinking that the menace of Hell makes as many devils as the severe penal codes of inhuman humanity make villains.