Date: 1817

"If I could rip up my heart and lay it at your feet, you would read engrav'd on it in capital letters your own adorable name"

— Burges, Sir James Bland (1752-1824)

Date: 1819

"Writing! O, I should have written thousands of pamphlets by this time, if it wasn't that--that the first sentence is so damn'd hard to get over; but, unluckily, I have such a profusion of ideas, that, when I sit down to write, there is so much crowding and jostling among them, that, curse me, yo...

— Poole, John (1786-1872)

Date: 1820

"Good bye, I wish you a wiser master--a jailor' heart should be like you--iron."

— Morton, Thomas (1764-1838)

Date: 1820

"Thus a number of writers possess the form, whilst they want the spirit of those whom, it is alleged, they imitate; because the former is the endowment of the age in which they live, and the latter must be the uncommunicated lightning of their own mind."

— Shelley, Percy Bysshe (1792-1822)

Date: 1820

"The cloud of mind is discharging its collected lightning, and the equilibrium between institutions and opinions is now restoring or is about to be restored."

— Shelley, Percy Bysshe (1792-1822)

Date: 1820

"He might as wisely and as easily determine that his mind should no longer be the mirror of all that is lovely in the visible universe as exclude from his contemplation the beautiful which exists in the writings of a great contemporary."

— Shelley, Percy Bysshe (1792-1822)

Date: 1820

"Every man's mind is, in this respect, modified by all the objects of Nature and art; by every word and every suggestion which he ever admitted to act upon his consciousness; it is the mirror upon which all forms are reflected and in which they compose one form."

— Shelley, Percy Bysshe (1792-1822)

Date: 1820

"How will thy soul, cloven to its depth with terror, / Gape like a hell within!"

— Shelley, Percy Bysshe (1792-1822)

Date: 1820

"Obscurely through my brain, like shadows dim, / Sweep awful thoughts, rapid and thick."

— Shelley, Percy Bysshe (1792-1822)

Date: 1820

"I curse thee! let a sufferer's curse / Clasp thee, his torturer, like remorse; / Till thine Infinity shall be / A robe of envenomed agony; / And thine Omnipotence a crown of pain, / To cling like burning gold round thy dissolving brain."

— Shelley, Percy Bysshe (1792-1822)