What do you think? Young women of rank eat - you will never guess what - garlick!

Those who inflict must suffer, for they see The work of their own hearts, and this must be Our chastisement or recompense.

A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds.

Constancy has nothing virtuous in itself, independently of the pleasure it confers, and partakes of the temporizing spirit of vice in proportion as it endures tamely moral defects of magnitude in the object of its indiscreet choice.

[L]ike thee to those in sorrow, Comes to bid a sweet good-morrow To the rough year just awake In its cradle on the brake. The brightest hour of unborn Spring, Through the winter wandering, Found, it seems, the halcyon Morn To hoar February born.

Poet's food is love and fame.

Contemporary criticism only represents the amount of ignorance genius has to contend with. . . . Time will reverse the judgement of the vulgar.