A Rose With All Its Sweetest Leaves

I Deny Nothing, But Doubt Everything.

None Are So Desolate But Something Dear, Dearer Than Self, Possesses Or Possess'd A Thought, And Claims The Homage Of A Tear.

I Have Always Believed That All Things Depended Upon Fortune, And Nothing Upon Ourselves.

On The Ear Drops The Light Drip Of The Suspended Oar.

One Of The Pleasures Of Reading Old Letters Is The Knowledge That They Need No Answer.