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.

A clear fire, a clean hearth, and the rigour of the game.

Ay, down to the dust with them, slaves as they are! From this hour let the blood in their dastardly veins, That shrunk at the first touch of Liberty's war, Be wasted for tyrants, or stagnate in chains.

Think what you would have been now, if instead of being fed with tales and old wives' fables in childhood, you had been crammed with geography and natural history!

A Persian's heaven is eas'ly made: 'T is but black eyes and lemonade.

How convalescence shrinks a man back to his pristine stature! where is now the space, which he occupied so lately, in his own, in the family's eye?

Satire does not look pretty upon a tombstone.