Pleasure must succeed to pleasure, else past pleasure turns to pain

Shakespeare was of us, Milton was of us, Burns, Shelley, were with us. They watch from their graves!

Still more labyrinthine buds the rose.

Love is the energy of life.

Sappho survives, because we sing her songs; And Eschylus, because we read his plays!

Unless you can love, as the angels may, With the breadth of heaven betwixt you; Unless you can dream that his faith is fast, Through behoving and unbeloving; Unless you can die when the dream is past- Oh, never call it loving!

I dare not so honor my mere wishes and prayers as to put them for a moment beside your noble acts; but this know, I would rather submit to the worst of deaths, so far as pain goes, than have a single dog or cat tortured on the pretence of sparing me a twinge or two.