The vices of some men are magnificent.
Gluttony and surfeiting are no proper occasions for thanksgiving.
The world meets nobody half way.
Our spirits grow gray before our hairs.
When thus the heart is in a vein Of tender thought, the simplest strain Can touch it with peculiar power.
I like you and your book, ingenious Hone! In whose capacious all-embracing leaves The very marrow of tradition 's shown; And all that history, much that fiction weaves.