His Fine Wit Makes Such A Wound,

Strange Thoughts Beget Strange Deeds.

Image Of Rugged Cliffs And So Thy Thoughts, When Thou Art Gone, Love Itself Shall Slumber On.

Music, When Soft Voices Die Vibrates In The Memory.

It Were Much Better That A Sentient Being Should Never Have Existed, Than That It Should Have Existed Only To Endure Unmitigated Misery.

Whence Are We, And Why Are We? Of What Scene The Actors Or Spectators?