I loved him for himself alone.

Won't you come into the garden? I would like my roses to see you.

You shall see them on a beautiful quarto page where a neat rivulet of text shall meander through a meadow of margin.

I ne'er could any lustre see In eyes that would not look on me; I ne'er saw nectar on a lip But where my own did hope to sip.

To smile at the jest which plants a thorn in another's breast is to become a principal in the mischief.

Our memories are independent of our wills.

There is no trusting appearances.