A Brave World, Sir, Full Of Religion,

You May Make Love In Dancing As Well As Sitting.

A Poet Is A Painter In His Way, He Draws To The Life, But In Another Kind; We Draw The Nobler Part, The Soul And The Mind; The Pictures Of The Pen Shall Outlast Those Of The Pencil, And Even Worlds Themselves.

'twas But A Dream, Yet By My Heart I Knew, Which Still Was Panting, Part Of It Was True: Oh How I Strove The Rest To Have Believed; Ashamed And Angry To Be Undeceived!

Each Moment Of A Happy Lover's Hour Is Worth An Age Of Dull And Common Life.

Love Ceases To Be A Pleasure, When It Ceases To Be A Secret.