“My only books were woman’s looks, and folly’s all they’ve taught me.”

Like ships that have gone down at sea, when heaven was all tranquillity.

Oh! blame not the bard.

The heart that has truly loved never forgets, But as truly loves on to the close.

The light, that lies In woman’s eyes, Has been my heart’s undoing.

Bastard Freedom waves Her fustian flag in mockery over slaves.

Came but for friendship, and took away love.

Romantic love is an illusion. Most of us discover this truth at the end of a love affair or else when the sweet emotions of love lead us into marriage and then turn down their flames.

Disguise our bondage as we will, ‘Tis woman, woman, rules us still.

It is only to the happy that tears are a luxury.

Humility, that low, sweet root, from which all heavenly virtues shoot.

Though an angel should write, still ’tis devils must print.

And the heart that is soonest awake to the flowers is always the first to be touch’d by the thorns.

A pretty wife is something for the fastidious vanity of a roue to retire upon.

This wretched brain gave way, and I became a wreck at random driven, without one glimpse of reason or heaven.

Here bring your wounded hearts, here tell your anguish; Earth has no sorrow that Heaven cannot heal.

Fond memory brings the light of other days around me.