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?

But those who cannot write, and those who can, All rhyme, and scrawl, and scribble, to a man.

The nicest constitutions of government are often like the finest pieces of clock-work, which, depending on so many motions, are therefore more subject to be out of order.

Hope springs eternal in the human breast: Man never is, but always To be Blest.

Homer excels all the inventors of other arts in this: that he has swallowed up the honor of those who succeeded him.

Speed the soft intercourse from soul to soul, And waft a sigh from Indus to the Pole.

A naked lover bound and bleeding lies!