The world meets nobody half way.

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

I have passed all my days in London, until I have formed as many and intense local attachments as any of you mountaineers can have done with dead nature.

Lawyers, I suppose, were children once.

There are like to be short graces where the devil plays host.

Who has not felt how sadly sweet The dream of home, the dream of home, Steals o'er the heart, too soon to fleet, When far o'er sea or land we roam?

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