Gluttony and surfeiting are no proper occasions for thanksgiving.

Damn the age. I'll write for antiquity.

He who hath not a dram of folly in his mixture hath pounds of much worse matter in his composition.

Summer, as my friend Coleridge waggishly writes, has set in with its usual severity.

Thus, when the lamp that lighted The traveller at first goes out, He feels awhile benighted, And looks around in fear and doubt. But soon, the prospect clearing, By cloudless starlight on he treads, And thinks no lamp so cheering As that light which Heaven sheds.

The greatest pleasure I know, is to do a good action by stealth, and to have it found out by accident.

The English writer, Charles Lamb, said one day: "I hate that man." "But you don't know him." "Of course, I don't," said Lamb. "Do you think I could possibly hate a man I know?"