The cemetery is an open space among the ruins, covered in winter with violets and daisies. It might make one in love with death, to think that one should be buried in so sweet a place.

Reviewers, with some rare exceptions, are a most stupid and malignant race. As a bankrupt thief turns thief-taker in despair, so an unsuccessful author turns critic.

Only nature knows how to justly proportion to the fault the punishment it deserves.

Ah, woe is me! Winter is come and gone. But grief returns with the revolving year.

Nothing in the world is single, All things by a law divine, In one spirit meet and mingle-Why not I with thine?

He has outsoared the shadow of our night; envy and calumny and hate and pain, and that unrest which men miscall delight, can touch him not and torture not again; from the contagion of the world's slow stain, he is secure.

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