Nature I Loved, And Next To Nature,

The Vain Poet Is Of The Opinion That Nothing Of His Can Be Too Much: He Sends To You Basketful After Basketful Of Juiceless Fruit, Covered With Scentless Flowers.

The Sweetest Souls, Like The Sweetest Flowers, Soon Canker In Cities, And No Purity Is Rarer There Than The Purity Of Delight.

Of All Failures, To Fail In A Witticism Is The Worst, And The Mishap Is The More Calamitous In A Drawn-out And Detailed One

The Siren Waits Thee, Singing Song For Song.

Cruelty Is The Highest Pleasure To The Cruel Man; It Is His Love.