I Suppose We Shall Soon Travel By

Lovers May Be And Indeed Generally Are Enemies, But They Never Can Be Friends, Because There Must Always Be A Spice Of Jealousy And A Something Of Self In All Their Speculations.

There Is No Instinct Like That Of The Heart.

There Is Pleasure In The Pathless Woods, There Is Rapture In The Lonely Shore, There Is Society Where None Intrudes, By The Deep Sea, And Music In Its Roar; I Love Not Man The Less, But Nature More.

Like The Measles, Love Is Most Dangerous When It Comes Late In Life.

One Hates An Author That's All Author.