...Ere midnight’s frown and morning’s smile, ere thou and peace may meet.

Deep truth is imageless.

It were much better that a sentient being should never have existed, than that it should have existed only to endure unmitigated misery.

A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds; his auditors are as men entranced by the melody of an unseen musician, who feel that they are moved and softened, yet know not whence or why.

His fine wit Makes such a wound, the knife is lost in it.

Power, like a desolating pestilence, pollutes whatever it touches.

Peter was dull; he was at first Dull; - Oh, so dull - so very dull! Whether he talked, wrote, or rehearsed - Still with his dulness was he cursed - Dull -beyond all conception - dull.