There is not in the wide world a valley so sweet As that vale in whose bosom the bright waters meet.

The man must have a rare recipe for melancholy, who can be dull in Fleet Street.

No work is worse than overwork; the mind preys on itself,--the most unwholesome of food.

Some people have a knack of putting upon you gifts of no real value, to engage you to substantial gratitude. We thank them for nothing.

To be sick is to enjoy monarchical prerogatives.

Not childhood alone, but the young man till thirty, never feels practically that he is mortal.

Fly not yet; 't is just the hour When pleasure, like the midnight flower That scorns the eye of vulgar light, Begins to bloom for sons of night And maids who love the moon.