Words Are But Pictures Of Our Thoughts.

Beware The Fury Of A Patient Man.

Ill Habits Gather Unseen Degrees, As Brooks Make Rivers, Rivers Run To Seas.

Imagining Is In Itself The Very Height And Life Of Poetry, Which, By A Kind Of Enthusiasm Or Extraordinary Emotion Of The Soul, Makes It Seem To Us That We Behold Those Things Which The Poet Paints.

Few Know The Use Of Life Before 'tis Past.

The Perverseness Of My Fate Is Such That He's Not Mine Because He's Mine Too Much.