I Love The Language, It Sounds As

The Thorns Which I Have Reap'd Are Of The Tree I Planted; They Have Torn Me, And I Bleed. I Should Have Known What Fruit Would Spring From Such A Seed.

For A Man To Become A Poet (witness Petrarch And Dante), He Must Be In Love, Or Miserable.

Prolonged Endurance Tames The Bold.

Accursed Be The City Where The Laws Would Stifle Nature's!

He Was A Man Of His Times. With One Virtue And A Thousand Crimes. (the Corsair)