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.

If thou would'st have me sing and play As once I play'd and sung, First take this time-worn lute away, And bring one freshly strung.

I allow no hot-beds in the gardens of Parnassus.

Satire does not look pretty upon a tombstone.

There is not in the wide world a valley so sweet As that vale in whose bosom the bright waters meet.

The teller of a mirthful tale has latitude allowed him. We are content with less than absolute truth.

As half in shade and half in sun This world along its path advances, May that side the sun 's upon Be all that e'er shall meet thy glances!