Where There Is No Novelty,

No Friend To Love Like A Long Voyage At Sea.

A Poet Is A Painter In His Way, He Draws To The Life, But In Another Kind; We Draw The Nobler Part, The Soul And The Mind; The Pictures Of The Pen Shall Outlast Those Of The Pencil, And Even Worlds Themselves.

Each Moment Of A Happy Lover's Hour Is Worth An Age Of Dull And Common Life.

Women In London Are Like The Rich Silks; They Are Out Of Fashion A Great While Before They Wear Out.

Love Ceases To Be A Pleasure, When It Ceases To Be A Secret.