I Live Not In Myself, But I

You Gave Me The Key To Your Heart, My Love, Then Why Did You Make Me Knock?

In Itself A Thought, A Slumbering Thought Is Capable Of Years; And Curdles A Long Life Into One Hour.

If I Don't Write To Empty My Mind, I Go Mad.

I Do Detest Everything Which Is Not Perfectly Mutual.

Here Lies Interred In The Eternity Of The Past, From Whence There Is No Resurrection For The Days - Whatever There May Be For The Dust - The Thirty-third Year Of An Ill-spent Life, Which, After A Lingering Disease Of Many Months Sank Into A Lethargy, And Expired, January 22d, 1821, A.d. Leaving A Successor Inconsolable For The Very Loss Which Occasioned Its Existence.