The man must have a rare recipe for melancholy, who can be dull in Fleet Street.
Merit, God knows, is very little rewarded.
Your absence of mind we have borne, till your presence of body came to be called in question by it.
To sigh, yet feel no pain; To weep, yet scarce know why; To sport an hour with Beauty's chain, Then throw it idly by.
Anything awful makes me laugh. I misbehaved once at a funeral.
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.