A Sinful Heart Makes Feeble Hand.

Literature Is A Great Staff, But A Very Sorry Crutch.

Adversity Is, To Me At Least, A Tonic And A Bracer.

He Who Indulges His Sense In Any Excesses Renders Himself Obnoxious To His Own Reason; And, To Gratify The Brute In Him, Displeases The Man, And Sets His Two Natures At Variance.

A Few Drops Sprinkled On The Torch Of Love Make The Flame Blaze The Brighter.

Call It Not Vain: They Do Not Err Who Say That When The Poet Dies Mute Nature Mourns Her Worshipper, And Celebrates His Obsequies.