Strange as it may seem, the most ludicrous lines I ever wrote have been written in the saddest mood.
Remorse begets reform.
Solitude, seeming a sanctuary, proves a grave; a sepulchre in which the living lie, where all good qualities grow sick and die
To follow foolish precedents, and wink With both our eyes, is easier than to think.
As if the world and they were hand and glove.
A heretic, my dear sir, is a fellow who disagrees with you regarding something neither of you knows anything about.