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.

She unbent her mind afterwards - over a book.

(The pig) hath a fair sepulchre in the grateful stomach of the judicious epicure - and for such a tomb might be content to die.

When true hearts lie wither'd And fond ones are flown, Oh, who would inhabit This bleak world alone?

I conceive disgust at these impertinent and misbecoming familiarities inscribed upon your ordinary tombstone.

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.

I counsel thee, shut not thy heart, nor thy library.