The dead of midnight is the noon of thought.

Child of mortality, whence comest thou? Why is thy countenance sad, and why are thine eyes red with weeping?

It would be difficult to determine whether the age is growing better or worse; for I think our plays are growing like sermons, and our sermons like plays.

While Genius was thus wasting his strength in eccentric flights, I saw a person of a very different appearance, named Application.

Man is the nobler growth our realms supply, And souls are ripened in our northern sky.

Of her scorn the maid repented, And the shepherd - of his love.

Englishmen are said to love their laws; - that is the reason, I suppose, they give us so many of them, and in different editions.