Here cometh April again, and as far as I can see the world hath more fools in it than ever.

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

Sassafras wood boiled down to a kind of tea, and tempered with an infusion of milk and sugar hath to some a delicacy beyond the China luxury.

No eye to watch, and no tongue to wound us, All earth forgot, and all heaven around us.

And the tear that we shed, though in secret it rolls, Shall long keep his memory green in our souls.

When thus the heart is in a vein Of tender thought, the simplest strain Can touch it with peculiar power.

Our spirits grow gray before our hairs.