The way to write well is to live intensely.

What is this terror? what is this ecstasy? he thought to himself. What is it that fills me with this extraordinary excitement? It is Clarissa, he said. For there she was.

Love, the poet said, is woman's whole existence.

How lovely goodness is in those who, stepping lightly, go smiling through the world.

A woman knows very well that, though a wit sends her his poems, praises her judgment, solicits her criticism, and drinks her tea, this by no means signifies that he respects her opinions, admires her understanding, or will refuse, though the rapier is denied him, to run through the body with his pen.

Rigid, the skeleton of habit alone upholds the human frame.

Melancholy were the sounds on a winter's night.