Satire does not look pretty upon a tombstone.

Shut not thy purse-strings always against painted distress.

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.

I give thee all,-I can no more, Though poor the off'ring be; My heart and lute are all the store That I can bring to thee.

I have had playmates, I have had companions; In my days of childhood, in my joyful school days - All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

Since all the maids are good and lovable, from whence come the bad wives?

Separate from the pleasure of your company, I don't much care if I never see another mountain in my life.