Love Ceases To Be A Pleasure, When

'twas But A Dream, Yet By My Heart I Knew, Which Still Was Panting, Part Of It Was True: Oh How I Strove The Rest To Have Believed; Ashamed And Angry To Be Undeceived!

A Poet Is A Painter In His Way, He Draws To The Life, But In Another Kind; We Draw The Nobler Part, The Soul And The Mind; The Pictures Of The Pen Shall Outlast Those Of The Pencil, And Even Worlds Themselves.

Love Ceases To Be A Pleasure, When It Ceases To Be A Secret.

Here Lies A Proof That Wit Can Never Be Defence Enough Against Mortality

Sure, I Rose The Wrong Way Today, I Have Had Such Damn'd Ill Luck Every Way.