I hate a man who swallows [his food], affecting not to know what he is eating. I suspect his taste in higher matters.

Clap an extinguisher upon your irony if you are unhappily blessed with a vein of it.

Cultivate simplicity, Coleridge.

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.

While childhood, and while dreams, producing childhood, shall be left, imagination shall not have spread her holy wings totally to fly the earth.

May be the truth is, that one pipe is wholesome, two pipes toothsome, three pipes noisome, four pipes fulsome, five pipes quarrelsome; and that's the some on't.

Gone before To that unknown and silent shore.