She Walks In Beauty, Like The Night

Never To Talk To Ones Self Is A Form Of Hypocrisy

I Love Not Man The Less, But Nature More.

I Hate All Pain, Given Or Received; We Have Enough Within Us The Meanest Vassal As The Loftiest Monarch, Not To Add To Each Other's Natural Burden Of Mortal Misery.

What A Strange Thing Is Man! And What A Stranger Is Woman.

And Hold Up To The Sun My Little Taper.