Is not absence death to those who love?

One science only will one genius fit; so vast is art, so narrow human wit.

Our plenteous streams a various race supply, The bright-eyed perch with fins of Tyrian dye, The silver eel, in shining volumes roll'd, The yellow carp, in scales bedropp'd with gold, Swift trouts, diversified with crimson stains, And pikes, the tyrants of the wat'ry plains.

Women, as they are like riddles in being unintelligible, so generally resemble them in this, that they please us no longer once we know them.

If a man's character is to be abused there's nobody like a relative to do the business.

Is that a birthday? 'tis, alas! too clear; 'Tis but the funeral of the former year.

Is there a parson much bemused in beer, a maudlin poetess, a rhyming peer, a clerk foredoom'd his father's soul to cross, who pens a stanza when he should engross?