Lord Of Himself; That Heritage Of Woe!

My Slumbers--if I Slumber--are Not Sleep, But A Continuance Of Enduring Thought, Which Then I Can Resist Not: In My Heart There Is A Vigil, And These Eyes But Close To Look Within; And Yet I Live, And Bear The Aspect And The Form Of Breathing Men.

Of All Tales 'tis The Saddest--and More Sad, Because It Makes Us Smile.

The Dome Of Thought, The Palace Of The Soul.

In Hope To Merit Heaven By Making Earth A Hell.

I Should, Many A Good Day, Have Blown My Brains Out, But For The Recollection That It Would Have Given Pleasure To My Mother-in-law.