Literature is a bad crutch, but a good walking-stick.

The harp that once through Tara's halls The soul of music shed, Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls As if that soul were fled. So sleeps the pride of former days, So glory's thrill is o'er; And hearts that once beat high for praise Now feel that pulse no more.

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.

Sassafras wood boiled down to a kind of tea, and tempered with an infusion of milk and sugar hath to some a delicacy beyond the China luxury.

The man must have a rare recipe for melancholy, who can be dull in Fleet Street.

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

No eye to watch, and no tongue to wound us, All earth forgot, and all heaven around us.