Self-love for ever creeps out, like a snake, to sting anything which happens to stumble upon it.

Ye stars! which are the poetry of heaven!

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 do detest everything which is not perfectly mutual.

Like the measles, love is most dangerous when it comes late in life.

There is no instinct like that of the heart.