O wretched is the dame, to whom the sound, Your lord will soon return, no phrase brings.

The fountain of my heart dried up within me,-- With nought that loved me, and with nought to love, I stood upon the desert earth alone. And in that deep and utter agony, Though then, then even most unfit to die I fell upon my knees and prayed for death.

A time will come, and soon, when, from mere habit, you will echo the scream of every delirious wretch that harbors near you then you will pause, clasp your hands on your throbbing head, and listen with horrible anxiety whether the scream proceeded from you or them.

Tis well to be merry and wise, 'Tis well to be honest and true It is best to be off with the old love, Before you are on with the new.

The soul shares not the body's test.

Nor cell, nor chain, nor dungeon speaks to the murderer like the voice of solitude.

There is no error more absurd, and yet more rooted in the heart of man, than the belief that his sufferings will promote his spiritual safety.

It is actually possible to become amateurs in suffering.