Whose wit in the combat, as gentle as bright, Ne'er carried a heart-stain away on its blade.

Damn the age. I'll write for antiquity.

Oh, breathe not his name! let it sleep in the shade, Where cold and unhonour'd his relics are laid

Gone before To that unknown and silent shore.

Returning to town in the stage-coach, which was filled with Mr. Gilman's guests, we stopped for a minute or two at Kentish Town. A woman asked the coachman, "Are you full inside?" Upon which Lamb put his head through the window and said, "I am quite full inside; that last piece of pudding at Mr. Gilman's did the business for me."

And when once the young heart of a maiden is stolen, The maiden herself will steal after it soon.

There are like to be short graces where the devil plays host.