Ye stars! which are the poetry of heaven!
Words are things, and a small drop of ink, falling like dew, upon a thought, produces that which makes thousands, perhaps millions, think.
Wives in their husbands’ absences grow subtler, and daughters sometimes run off with the butler.
Who loves, raves.
When, for a moment, like a drop of rain, he sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan, without a grave, unknelled, uncoffined, and unknown.
What is the worst of woes that wait on age? What stamps the wrinkle deeper on the brow? To view each loved one blotted from life’s page, and be alone on earth, as I am now.
What deep wounds ever closed without a scar?
What a strange thing is man! and what a stranger is woman!
Truth is always strange; stranger than fiction; if it could be told, how much would novels gain by the exchange! How differently the world would men behold!
Though sages may pour out their wisdom’s treasure, there is no sterner moralist than Pleasure.
This is the patent-age of new inventions for killing bodies, and for saving souls, all propagated with the best intentions.
There’s naught, no doubt, so much the spirit calms as rum and true religion.
