His Old Right Hand Lay Nerveless, Listless,

The Genius Of Shakespeare Was An Innate University.

The World Is Too Brutal For Me-i Am Glad There Is Such A Thing As The Grave-i Am Sure I Shall Never Have Any Rest Till I Get There.

The Thought, The Deadly Thought Of Solitude.

Thou Art A Dreaming Thing, A Fever Of Thyself.

The Excellence Of Every Art Is Its Intensity, Capable Of Making All Disagreeables Evaporate, From Their Being In Close Relationship With Beauty And Truth.