“But words are things, and a small drop of ink, Falling like dew, upon a thought, produces That which makes thousands, perhaps millions, think.”

I have great hopes that we shall love each other all our lives as much as if we had never married at all.

Tyranny is for the worst of treasons.

A timid mind is apt to mistake every scratch for a mortal wound.

Roll on, deep and dark blue ocean, roll. Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain. Man marks the earth with ruin, but his control stops with the shore.

Let us have wine and women, mirth and laughter, sermons and soda water the day after.

Man is in part divine, A troubled stream from a pure source.

Who then will explain the explanation?

It is when we think we lead that we are most led.

Why do they call me misanthrope? Because They hate me, not I them.

Heaven gives its favourites-early death.

A mistress never is nor can be a friend. While you agree, you are lovers; and when it is over, anything but friends.

A thousand years may scare form a state. An hour may lay it in ruins.

What deep wounds ever closed without a scar?

Be warm, be pure, be amorous, but be chaste.

Friendship is Love without his wings!

They truly mourn, that mourn without a witness.

The purpose of literature is to turn blood into ink.

Her veins are filled with the ink that writes onto the paper of her life and canvas.

My ink-soaked heart could write your name across the sky a thousand times more than the stars that decorate the velvet night.

Paint your scars with the ink of hope.

Pain shapes us into writers, it cuts our veins open like a sharp knife. But while we are about to bleed dry, we turn our blood into ink.

My words, the ink, on this page they’re all for you.

Ink pours like rain when I think about all the times you said my name, heartache just falls onto the page.

Write your lustful words with the invisible ink of your tongue upon every part of my body, until my mouth begins to moan every single letter in poetry.