A Brave World, Sir, Full

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

No Friend To Love Like A Long Voyage At Sea.

All I Ask, Is The Privilege For My Masculine Part The Poet In Me.... If I Must Not, Because Of My Sex, Have This Freedom... I Lay Down My Quill And You Shall Hear No More Of Me.

I Value Fame As Much As If I Had Been Born A Hero.

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.