All Judges Had Rather That Ten Innocent

Every Where I See Bliss, From Which I Alone Am Irrevocably Excluded.

I Am Alone And Miserable. Only Someone As Ugly As I Am Could Love Me.

The Labours Of Men Of Genius, However Erroneously Directed, Scarcely Ever Fail In Ultimately Turning To The Solid Advantage Of Mankind.

I Felt Emotions Of Gentleness And Pleasure, That Had Long Appeared Dead, Revive Within Me. Half Surprised By The Novelty Of These Sensations, I Allowed Myself To Be Borne Away By Them, And Forgetting My Solitude And Deformity, Dared To Be Happy.

Our Feelings Probably Are Not Less Strong At Fifty Than They Were Ten Or Fifteen Years Before; But They Have Changed Their Objects, And Dwell On Far Different Prospects. At Five-and-thirty A Man Thinks Of What His Own Existence Is; When The Maturity Of Age Has Grown Into Its Autumn, He Is Wrapt Up In That Of Others. The Loss Of Wife Or Child Then Becomes More Deplorable, As Being Impossible To Repair; For No Fresh Connection Can Give Us Back The Companion Of Our Earlier Years, Nor A "new-sprung Race" Compensate For That, Whose Career We Hoped To See Run.