My only books Were woman's looks,- And folly 's all they 've taught me.

By myself walking, To myself talking.

Oh, breathe not his name! let it sleep in the shade, Where cold and unhonour'd his relics are laid

How I like to be liked, and what I do to be liked!

I hate a man who swallows [his food], affecting not to know what he is eating. I suspect his taste in higher matters.

I mean your borrowers of books - those mutilators of collections, spoilers of the symmetry of shelves, and creators of odd volumes.

Oh for a tongue to curse the slave Whose treason, like a deadly blight, Comes o'er the councils of the brave, And blasts them in their hour of might!