Let joy be unconfined.

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But 'why then publish?' There are no rewards Of fame or profit when the world grows weary. I ask in turn why do you play at cards? Why drink? Why read? To make some hour less dreary. It occupies me to turn back regards On what I've seen or pondered, sad or cheery, And what I write I cast upon the stream To swim or sink. I have had at least my dream.

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'Tis solitude should teach us how to die; It hath no flatterers; vanity can give, No hollow aid; alone - man with God must strive.

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There is pleasure in the pathless woods, there is rapture in the lonely shore, there is society where none intrudes, by the deep sea, and music in its roar; I love not Man the less, but Nature more.

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The mind can make substance, and people planets of its own with beings brighter than have been, and give a breath to forms which can outlive all flesh.

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Fools are my theme, let satire be my song.

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Love will find a way through paths where wolves fear to prey.

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Nothing so fretful, so despicable as a Scribbler, see what I am, and what a parcel of Scoundrels I have brought about my ears, and what language I have been obliged to treat them with to deal with them in their own way; - all this comes of Authorship.

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If I don't write to empty my mind, I go mad.

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Friendship may, and often does, grow into love, but love never subsides into friendship.

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