And If I Laugh At Any Mortal

My Beautiful, My Own My Only Venice-this Is Breath! Thy Breeze Thine Adrian Sea-breeze, How It Fans My Face! Thy Very Winds Feel Native To My Veins, And Cool Them Into Calmness!

One Hates An Author That's All Author.

I Am The Very Slave Of Circumstance And Impulse -- Borne Away With Every Breath!

Curiosity Kills Itself; And Love Is Only Curiosity, As Is Proved By Its End.

And The Commencement Of Atonement Is The Sense Of Its Necessity.